


Commercial Break

by Moosepelheim



Series: Limerence [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Deadpool - All Media Types, Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asexual Steve Rogers, Bucky is good with kids, Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Post-Civil War (Marvel), Team Dynamics, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-08
Updated: 2016-10-04
Packaged: 2018-07-22 06:23:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 15
Words: 62,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7423540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moosepelheim/pseuds/Moosepelheim
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The team is back together and everything is going (relatively) well.</p><p>Until someone hires an unstoppable mercenary to kill The Winter Soldier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Curl-a-Dog

“It’s not fair,” yells Sam over the comms. “Steve got Red Skull, Loki, Ultron—fucking _HYDRA_. I pick up the shield and I get fucking _Flag-Smasher_ as a nemesis. Who the fuck _smashes_ flags? No one! It makes no sense!”

“Shut up and focus or he might get you with his mace,” Tony says, trying not to cackle while he dives out of the air to kick the gun out of the hand of a goon. Their uniforms are very snappy-- a jaunty black cap, white mask, aviators, and well-tailored coats. _Tasteful_ , thinks Tony, as he knocks the goon unconscious. “I think I need a uniform change.”

“Don’t even think about it. You look _awful_ in hats,” Natasha chimes in. “Keep chatter on the comms down to a minimum, Wanda and Vision are trying to focus on getting the hostages out without casualties. You got a bead on Flag-Smasher, Bucky?”

“Had it for the last five minutes. I’m waiting for the fucking signal,” Bucky grunts from his hidden position somewhere in the dark auditorium.

The day had started out well, Sam and Tony had agreed to come give a talk to a massive group of kids, which had been fun. Then they’d been interrupted by gunshots and a squad of armed thugs led by the Flag-Smasher, who held the audience at gunpoint and ranted at them for forty five minutes about… some bullshit. Tony blocked most of it. Luckily the team had showed up before he had to off himself.

Tony scans the auditorium quickly, trying to spot Bucky. He’s very good at hiding so they’ve made a game of trying to guess where he is during fights, although they’ve all had to promise not to wave at him if they guess where he is (“It was _one_ time, Bucky!” Steve shouted.)

“Now, do it now!” yells Sam, dodging another swing. “The second-hand embarrassment is killing me!”

“Silence!” shouts Flag-Smasher angrily. He steps back, leaps onto the stage and puffs his chest out, his cape swaying a little. _He’s about to monologue_ , Tony thinks with glee. “If anyone should be embarrassed it should be you, you nationalist pig! You wear a symbol of separatism and claim to defend peace, and yet you cannot see the hypocrisy, you idiotic, pathetic eyesore, you--”

_Pow._

The tranq dart buries itself in Flag-Smasher’s thigh. “Oh fu--” he manages to get out before he keels over.

It’s over pretty quickly; the hostages are brought to safety and the goons that didn’t manage to escape are rounded up and sent to Riker’s for processing.

“How’s the shield workin’ for ya?” asks Tony, walking over to where Sam is seated on the edge of the stage, taking a moment to catch his breath.

“Heavy as shit,” says Sam, but he’s grinning triumphantly. “I think I did pretty well, considering I’m not a super soldier.”

“You did great,” agrees Tony, patting him on the shoulder. “Ooh, wow, feel those deltoids! You might not have the serum but you’re still pretty super.”

“Stop flirting, it’s creepy,” says Natasha, climbing on the stage to sit next to Sam.

“Aw, come on Nat, I’m so close to getting into Tony’s pants,” whines Sam, winking at Tony.

They might have had a rocky start, both a little unsure of each other, but Tony thinks they’re friends now (it’s always hard for Tony to tell, but he’s trying to learn to calm down and not force a friendship on the people he likes). Tony was upset by Steve’s retirement, still is, but it’s helping that Sam is just as sassy as Rogers. Tony needs to fill his bant quota during a fight, otherwise it just doesn’t feel _satisfying_.

“I’d be flattered, but I know you only want me for my cars,” says Tony.

“Hey now!” Sam protests, looking offended. “I want you for your body, too!”

“Never let it be said that Sam is merely materialistic. He’s shallow, too,” Bucky says as he appears out of the darkness near the edge of the well-lit stage. His uniform is all black and he wears a mask to disguise the features that aren’t hidden by his beard in case there are any snap-happy civilians. There is still a warrant for his arrest but Pepper is working on it.

“Where were you hiding this time?” asks Sam, grinning up at Bucky.

“Over--” Bucky points towards the back of the auditorium, looking up at a ledge that is almost invisible in the darkness.

It happens instantly but it feels like everything happens in slow motion. Bucky’s eyes widen, he shouts for everyone to get down as he pushes Sam out of the way. The sound of a single gunshot ringing out in the auditorium is both deafening and oddly quiet. Bucky grunts in pain as the bullet lodges in his shoulder. Then he collapses.

Natasha is immediately firing into the darkness while Sam pulls Bucky down and off the stage, pressing his hand firmly to the wound in Bucky’s shoulder.

“Come on soldier,” he grunts as he tries to shift Bucky’s heavy body into a more comfortable position. “Stay awake.”

“It’s fine,” says Bucky faintly. “Nothing a little nap won’t…”

Tony lifts off, landing on the ledge that Bucky had been pointing at. He moves forward into the dark hall that leads to a stairwell, but there is nothing. No heat signature, no indication that anyone is there. “How’d they get out so fast?” he murmurs.

Bucky is evaced to Stark Medical, where they are met by a panicked Steve. “What the hell happened?”

“Someone tried to take Cap out, Bucky used his shoulder to stop the bullet,” says Tony, full of nervous energy. “I don’t know how they got out of the building so fast. I was up there within seconds and they were already gone.”

“Sam,” says Steve, rushing forward to embrace him.

“Steve, I’m so sorry,” Sam says, guilt and sorrow choking him.

“Not your fault, Sam.”

“But if anything happens to Bucky, it’s because of me…”

“Allow Buck the dignity of his choice,” Steve say quietly, resting his hand on the back of Sam’s neck for a moment before turning to Tony. “What did the evac team think? Is he… is he going to make it?”

“Steve, he survived a hundred foot drop into icy water and seventy years of HYDRA’s best,” Natasha tells him. “He can survive a teeny-weeny bullet to the shoulder.”

Oddly, this seems to be comforting because Steve grins a little. “Thanks, Nat.”

Tony isn’t comforted. Tony is furious so he escapes to his lab to avoid the drama of the waiting room. He pulls all the footage from the auditorium but he can’t figure out who took the shot. Bucky saw something though so Tony will just have to wait. He hates waiting so he loses himself in a project. It’s not helping.

Friday alerts him that Bucky is conscious about eight hours later and Tony races upstairs, opening the door on Steve giving Bucky a lecture.

“You don’t do that ever again,” Steve says through gritted teeth.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Yeah, coming from you that’s hilarious Mr. I’ll-save-everyone-from-the-grenade-with-my- _body_.”

“Don’t do as I do, do as I say.”

“You aren’t my C.O. Rogers!” Bucky shouts with exasperation.

“What happened to allowing Bucky the dignity of his choice?” asks Tony, stepping further into the room.

“You stay out of it.” Steve waves an angry finger in his direction to emphasize just out how of it Tony is expected to stay.

“Whatever. I’m here to do something actually useful, Rogers,” says Tony, stepping to Bucky’s other side. “I can’t get any footage of the balcony. I need you to tell me what you saw if we’re going to have a chance of tracking this bastard down.”

Steve stops mumbling in quiet indignation, watching intently as Bucky closes his eyes and thinks. “Hard to remember exactly what I saw. I was looking up and something moved and I focused on the gun not the shooter. Michael sort of took over for a few seconds because I panicked and froze like a fucking rookie…”

“That’s… that’s something he can do?” asks Steve, looking taken aback.

Bucky frowns a little. “I guess? I haven’t panicked like that in a long time. I’m glad he took over, though. It saved Sam’s life.”

“Any way we can talk to Michael? See if he got something you didn’t?” Tony is mainly focused on getting a lead but a part of him is ecstatic at the possibility of speaking to Michael for the first time since Bucky woke up.

Bucky doesn’t look happy about the idea but he says “I’ll try” and closes his eyes again.

For a few minutes everything is quiet except for the gentle beeping of the pulse/oximeter. It begins to pick up, registering a quickening in Bucky’s breathing, but it levels out again almost immediately and he opens his eyes. Tony knows it’s Michael.

“Hey kid, long time no see!” He pats Michael on the arm happily.

Steve greets him affectionately as well and Michael looks a little taken aback, like he wasn’t expecting them to be happy to see him. “Hello,” he says cautiously.

“It’s good to confirm that you are well,” says Friday, and Michael smiles gently.

“Bucky said you wanted to talk to me?”

“Yeah. Did you see the shooter? Bucky says he focused on the gun and didn’t see anything before you took over.” Tony fidgets a little with some of the wires around the bed. He loathes hospital rooms but he’s trying to behave himself.

Michael is silent for a few moments, thinking. He glances up at Tony, looking apprehensive like he’s about to get in trouble. “It seems unlikely, but… I thought I saw Spiderman.”

“W-what? Seriously?” Tony is completely taken aback.

“The mask. It looked like Spiderman.” Michael shrugs a little, forgetting his shoulder and wincing in pain. He looks over at Steve who is frowning in thought.

Steve feels Michael’s gaze and looks up, smiling at him warmly. “Thank you for telling us what you saw. It’s the only lead we have. We’ll definitely follow up on it.”

“There is no way that Peter shot Bucky,” says Tony flatly, folding his arms. “One, the kid hates guns. Two, the kid loves Bucky. Three, the kid is a good kid; he’s a _hero_ Steve.”

“I’m not saying it was Spiderman, Tony. I’m just saying that if Michael saw someone that _looked_ like Spiderman we have an idea of what we’re looking for.”

“I’m going back under if neither of you need me for anything more,” says Michael.

Tony frowns a little, putting his hand back on Michael’s arm. “You and Bucky work out a schedule or something. I’d like to talk to you sometimes. I miss you, Mikey.”

Michael smiles a little, looking up at Tony shyly. “’kay,” is all he says before he closes his eyes again.

Bucky comes back a few minutes later looking wigged out. “I hate that.”

“How does it work up there?” asks Tony, full of curiosity. “Are you able to talk to each other at all? What is that _like_?”

Bucky frowns at Tony. “Don’t know, yes, and horrible.”

Tony opens his mouth to ask more questions but Steve sends him a glare that means ‘you open your mouth again and I’m going to dangle you over a pit of alligators’, so Tony refrains from prying. “Well, I’m gonna go,” says Tony, sensing that it’s time for him to leave.

Tony is suddenly very worried about Peter. He resolves to call him once he combs the footage again.

~*~

Steve is mad; not at Bucky per se, but Bucky is taking it very personally regardless.

“You have no right to be mad about this. You put yourself in harm’s way _all_ the time.”

Steve throws his hands up in the air; he doesn’t know what Bucky wants from him. “Bucky, I can’t turn it off. This is how I feel!”

“Yeah, well… stop!” Bucky winces a little as he shifts on the couch. He was discharged that morning once it was apparent that his healing factor made most of the doctor’s efforts pointless. He’s refusing to sleep in the bed with Steve tonight, instead choosing the couch; Steve feels like he’s being punished.

“Just come to bed, Bucky. Stop this. I can’t sleep without you.”

“Tough beans,” Bucky grunts as he tries to get into a position that makes his shoulder ache less. “Couch is better for my back and you toss and turn too much. It’ll be the couch for at least two more nights.”

“Fine,” says Steve. “ _Fine_.” He marches back to their bedroom, grabs the blanket and his pillow, and marches back into the living room. He rips the cushions off the other couch, sets them up on the floor near to Bucky with enough room that Bucky can stand up if he needs to without stepping over Steve, and throws himself down petulantly. “Good _night_ ,” he says through gritted teeth, wrapping himself up in the blanket like an angry burrito.

“You are the most ridiculous man I’ve ever known,” says Bucky.

Steve snorts. “Hi, I’m kettle, you must be pot.”

“Stop being a jackass and go to sleep. I need my beauty rest.” Bucky has Friday turn the lights off, and a sullen silence fills the room. “Shut up, I can’t sleep,” says Bucky.

Steve bristles. “I’m not saying anything.”

“You’re not saying anything _very_ loudly.”

Steve rolls over so he’s facing Bucky in the darkness. “I’ll say something really, really quietly. Can you guess what it is?”

“I’d punch you if it wouldn’t rip my stitches.” Bucky shifts a little on the couch and Steve knows he’s looking over towards Steve.

“I love you,” Steve says, quietly.

Bucky pounds the back of the couch in frustration. “You always fight dirty--”

“Shut up and listen. I love you. I’m not mad that you protected Sam—I would have made the same call. I’m proud of you for being a hero. But I’m mad that I wasn’t there _with you_ , Bucky; I’m mad at _myself_.”

Bucky sighs. “I _know_ that. I’m mad that you’re being a fucking martyr about this. What would have changed if you’d been there? I’d have got shot throwing myself in front of _you_ instead, that’s what. You retired for a good reason, Steve, and the only way I can be on the field again to make even these small reparations is because I don’t have to worry about you being there.”

Steve knows what Bucky is saying but the possibility of losing Bucky and not being _right there_ is too much. “I should come out of retirement--”

“Don’t you fucking _dare_ , Rogers.”

“Bucky--”

“I’ll disappear.”

Steve feels like he’s been slapped. That Bucky would dare to threaten him with that is such a manipulative, petulant thing to do. “You don’t get to threaten me with that. Don’t you _ever_ threaten me with that. I’m not going to be in a relationship with you if you think that you can push me around by holding something like that over my head. How _dare_ you?”

Bucky is unrepentant. “I’ll do what I have to do to keep you safe. You can end it, I don’t care. Your life and your happiness are more important to me than anything.”

“Is this about my happiness or your guilt Bucky?” Steve feels shaky and ill. He can’t believe they’re having this conversation.

“It can be about both.”

They fall silent; Steve is terrified, certain if he says even one more word Bucky will end things. It’s like his stomach is being gripped in a vice. After a few minutes Bucky breaks the silence.

“I’m sorry, Steve. Baby, I’m sorry,” Bucky reaches out a hand in the darkness and Steve crawls over to Bucky, kissing him deeply. “I shouldn’t have said it. Even if you come out of retirement I won’t ever leave. I’m so sorry, Stevie.”

“Please don’t do that to me.” Steve grips Bucky’s hand and squeezes. “I can’t take it.”

“Never again, I promise. But please, Steve, please don’t come out of retirement. You haven’t been this happy since before the war; things are going well for you, giving painting lessons to all those little kids, doing your art shows. It’s going to break my heart if you lose that just because you’re afraid of losing me.”

“I could have both,” Steve says. He tries to imagine it but it’s impossible. A weird panic grips him when he tries to think about putting the uniform back on.

“No you couldn’t. You paid whatever debt you thought you owed, Steve. Those men that gave their lives—you did right by them. Every single one of them. I have more road ahead of me but I promise I’m going to come home from the war someday. Then we’ll retire together, move to Ireland, get a little farmhouse with a leaky roof and bad plumbing. We’ll have that, honey.”

“Can we have a dog?” Steve asks hopefully. He wants something short and fat, a grumpy mutt with an ugly face and funny legs.

Bucky snorts. “Yeah we can have a dog, like that one that Mr. Brufeld kept in the store. The one that farted all the time and attacked you whenever you tried to buy the paper.”

Steve laughs. “That’s the _exact_ dog I was thinking about! I _loved_ that dog.”

“Only you could love something that keeps attacking you,” sighs Bucky, kissing Steve with exasperated affection.

Steve giggles a little against Bucky’s mouth. “I’ll have you know some of my very best friends are people that keep attacking me.”

“You got problems, Rogers,” Bucky says, laughing.

Steve kisses him one more time and settles back onto the cushions, smiling a little and feeling better now that they’ve resolved things.

“Tell me something happy,” says Bucky in the darkness. He sounds young, like the Bucky Steve knew before the war. Nostalgia chokes him for a moment as he searches for something to say.

“The Juno probe made it to Jupiter,” says Steve. Bucky loves space stuff—both of them agree it’s the one thing that really makes them feel like they’re in the future. “It launched five years ago and just now made it into orbit around Jupiter.”

“Neat,” says Bucky wonderingly. “I wish I could have landed on the moon. I would’ve given anything to be an astronaut.”

“I bet you could bully Tony into building a space ship.”

“I’d only have to tell him that he couldn’t do it, and I’d be on the moon by next Wednesday. Does he know how easy he is to manipulate?”

Steve laughs a little and yawns. “I won’t tell him if you won’t.”

They fall asleep shortly after that, both of them dreaming about the future.

~*~

“Peeeeete,” whines Tony into the phone once Peter picks up.

Peter holds it away from his ear, wincing. His hearing is very sensitive and Tony’s voice is like a dagger in his ear. “Hi, Mr. Stark. Please stop.”

“Oh right, spidey-hearing. Sorry, kid,” Tony apologizes, speaking gently. “I need to ask you something.”

Peter can hear uncharacteristic seriousness in Tony’s voice, so he tenses. “What’s up, Mr. Stark?”

“Where were you yesterday around midday?”

“I was in class. Why?” Peter frowns in confusion.

Tony makes a noise of triumph. “Bucky got shot yesterday protecting Sam. He said the shooter looked like you, but I knew it couldn’t be.”

Peter nearly drops the phone. “Bucky got shot? Wh-how is he? Oh my god, how is Steve? Why didn’t anyone… where is he?”

“Bucky’s fine, he’s already discharged. Super soldier is still super as ever.”

Peter frowns. “I heard about the Flag-Smasher incident, but I didn’t hear any reports about injuries or an attempt on Cap…”

“Well, you know, we can’t exactly talk about our newest Avenger. Gotta keep it hush hush until they force our hand,” Tony says. There’s a rustling noise in the background and Peter is pretty sure that Tony is messing with a newspaper. Tony never reads the paper, preferring all his news to be digital.

“Are you reading the Bugle?” asks Peter, sighing a little.

“You are freaky, kid. What, you can hear the news print over the phone? Like the goddamn princess and the pea, ‘cept it’s the spider and the… the Bugle. Whatever, you know what I’m saying. How the hell did you guess that?”

Peter shakes his head, grinning despite himself. “You hate reading stuff that isn’t on a Stark pad. Bugle is running a front page story about Spiderman being a menace and they don’t have a digital edition, and you’re weirdly overprotective of me--”

“I’m just saying you need good PR and if you officially join the Avengers you can have a _team_ of people to deal with bullshit like this,” interjects Tony.

“I don’t want to join the team.” They’ve had this argument countless times—Peter doesn’t want to deal with team dynamics, feeling like he works better alone. He’d also probably have to reveal his identity eventually. They’re playing it close with Bucky, but Peter is too recognizable as Spiderman; it would only be a matter of time before the pressure from the public forced Peter to out himself before he was ready.

Tony grumbles in frustration. “Yeah, alright. Have it your way, kid. Keep an eye out though, there’s someone running around looking like Spiderman and they could cause problems for you. More problems, I mean.”

“Thanks for the heads up, Mr. Stark. I’ll keep an eye out for anything suspicious.”

Peter ends the call and considers his options for the evening. He can stay in and finish his math homework or he can suit up and patrol a little, maybe catch the fake Spiderman and dump him at the police station. Make sure Bucky gets justice.

“Suit up,” he decides.

May is out on a date so he’ll have a few hours to patrol without worrying that she’s at the apartment worrying about him. He leaves her a note anyway, telling her he’s heading off to study with a friend, and then he climbs to the rooftop, pulling his mask on and bundling his outerwear into a convenient corner. He sets off into the cool autumn night, enjoying the (relative) peace of the evening.

He stops a couple muggings, but other than that there is nothing amiss, so he decides to buy a hotdog and take a break. He’s about to take a bite when his spidey-sense begins to tingle. He hears a loud “YOO-HOO SPIDERMAN” coming from the next rooftop over and he turns to see a man in a red suit waving at him manically. Peter’s jaw drops as the man takes a running leap and climbs his way closer. In the darkness the suit looks very, very familiar.

“You shot Bu—my friend!” shouts Peter. Before the other man can respond Peter shoots webbing at his hands and feet. The guy face-plants, grunting in pain before he sits up again, shaking his head a little.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, only dudes I shoot these days are bad dudes, I swear kid,” the man says, raising his bound arms in front of his face defensively. “I just wanted to say I like your work is all, one sexy masked guy to another. You’re less douchey than the X-men and way cooler than the Avengers. You made me want to try giving the whole _doing good_ thing a go, but in my own special way, with more bullets and less shmaltz.”

“Did you shoot someone yesterday in an auditorium?” Peter asks angrily, pointing threateningly. The masked dude is watching Peter’s hand intently and Peter realizes he’s gesticulating wildly with his hot dog. “Did you?” he asks again, hiding the hotdog hand behind his back and pretending that he didn’t just lose serious intimidation points.

“Nah man, you’re still way intimidating. More intimidating, actually. I’ve never been threatened by a hotdog before. The possibilities are… fascinating,” the man says, wiggling his eyebrows behind the mask.

Peter is taken aback. “What?”

“Yes, I shot the Winter Soldier, because I am a badass with a good ass and lots of class, and that ain’t no sass.”

Peter is at a loss. “I… who the hell are you?”

“DeadPool, just your friendly neighborhood, uh… dead guy? Pool boy. Dead pool boy. Sorry, screwed that up, I get nervous when I meet celebrities. Would you sign my autograph book? I don’t have pockets on this thing so I tucked it somewhere fun. I’ll give you three guesses where. If you guess right I’ll let you--”

“You shot my friend,” says Peter, hauling Deadpool up to his feet. “I’m taking you to the police station.”

“I didn’t shoot anybody’s friend, I shot the Winter Soldier! You know, the guy that killed lots of guys. I mean, I know I’m a guy that kills lots of guys so I can’t judge, but now there’s one less guy who kill guys in the world. I’m _helping_ ,” Deadpool insists.

“You didn’t kill him and he’s not _like_ that anymore.”

“What?” shrieks Deadpool, thrashing violently and succeeding in wrenching his arm out of Peter’s grip. “That grizzly bear in skinny jeans is still kicking? Fuck! I’m not gonna get my money!”

Peter frowns. “You’re being paid to kill him?”

Deadpool snorts derisively. “Hell yeah! I don’t do good for _free_. I’m not Iron Man.”

“You’re not doing good at _all_. You can’t kill Bucky!”

“Not with that attitude I can’t!” says Deadpool cheerfully. “Thanks for the tip, kid!”

Deadpool contorts impossibly, arms popping out of their sockets, and cuts the webbing on one of the blades strapped to his back, freeing his arms. He cuts his feet free and launches himself off the roof, landing in a dumpster seven floors below. It all happens in under three seconds.

“I’m a garbage _can_ , not a garbage _can’t_!” Deadpool cheers as he disappears into the sewer.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” chants Peter, calling Tony quickly.

“It’s late for a school night, kid,” says Tony once he picks up.

“Uh, I found our shooter.”

 “You… you found him? Where are you? Are you okay?”

Peter winces guiltily. “Yeah, mostly ‘cause I lost him right after I found him.”

 There’s a short pause on the line. “It’s okay kid, as long as you’re safe.”

“There’s something else.” Peter fidgets nervously.

“Shit, did you get shot?” Tony says, voice raising an octave.

Peter rolls his eyes. “No, Mr. Stark, I promise.”

Tony sighs with relief. “Okay, okay. What is it?”

“He wasn't trying to kill Sam; he's being paid to kill _Bucky_.”

“Well, fuck,” says Tony.


	2. Bacon Wave

Bucky wakes with the dawn, yawning quietly. His shoulder aches a little less than it did yesterday and he tentatively rolls it to see how the muscles respond. It seems to be healing well he decides with satisfaction. He’ll be back to normal tomorrow most likely.

Steve is snoring gently on the floor and Bucky turns to watch him with a gentle smile.

Their relationship is precious, an astonishing gift that Bucky never thought he’d be given. It’s new and there are places where they don’t fit together right, but it’s something he has wanted since he was old enough to realize he wanted Steve. The lack of sex is strange for him but the intimacy comes in other ways, sates hungers he didn’t know he had.

Strange is not bad.

Despite his best efforts there is a part of him that is insecure, worried at Steve’s lack of sexual interest in him. There is aesthetic interest, certainly; Steve will sketch him for hours when Bucky allows it. Steve will murmur praise into Bucky’s mouth as they lay together, rhapsodizing about all of the ways that Bucky is beautiful to him. Bucky strokes himself as Steve whispers these precious things to him, satisfied by their unique love making, but he wants to reciprocate somehow.

How is he supposed to satisfy Steve in return? How is this enough for Steve?

Steve snorts awake, wiping drool off his chin with a clumsy hand, looking around in vague bewilderment at the unfamiliar surroundings on the living room floor. Bucky grins wider, madly in love. “Morning, Sleeping Beauty.”

“Shut up,” Steve rumbles, his sinuses blocked like they usually are in the mornings.

“Mm, the sass is starting up already. I can tell it’s going to be a good day.” Bucky sits up as Steve starts untangling himself from the blanket.

“Mmrg, I don’t care how much your shoulder hurts, we’re sleeping in the bed tonight.”

“Sir, yes sir.” Bucky laughs as Steve throws the pillow at him.

They clean up the living room and shower together, enjoying hot water and lazy, stale-breathed kisses. Neither of them mind morning breath, having experienced smells far worse; morning breath is a sweet, domestic rankness in comparison to other things.

Steve is in a better mood by the time their shower ends, snapping a towel at Bucky’s ass. “I swear to god, Rogers--” Bucky growls through gritted teeth.

“Finish the threat and I might be scared.” Steve waits, cocking his head to listen intently. When Bucky merely continues glowering, Steve grins. “Well then, I think I’ll keep doin’ it.”

“You’re a menace,” says Bucky. When Steve’s back is turned he reaches out and slaps Steve’s ass in retaliation, smirking at the yelp of surprise. Steve whips around with a determined look and Bucky bolts.

Eventually they get dressed, once their game has run its course. Neither of them won, but neither of them lost. It’s definitely a satisfying start to the morning.

Steve makes Bucky sit down at the table and won’t let him help make breakfast. “I’m not an invalid,” Bucky says petulantly.

Steve smiles patiently. “Shut up and let me take care of you.”

Bucky watches as Steve moves around the kitchen, preparing ingredients and singing to himself happily. Steve has a nice voice but he won’t sing unless he’s in church or in a rare mood. Bucky can’t place the tune or the words but he closes his eyes and enjoys the moment. He opens them again when Steve places a kiss on the top of his head.

“You having fun, sugarplum?” Bucky asks, his resentment over being coddled dissolving in the face of Steve’s happiness.

“I love this. I love taking care of you,” confesses Steve quietly, face still buried in Bucky’s hair, voice thick as though he’s embarrassed.

“Yeah?” asks Bucky, turning to look up at Steve who is beet red for some reason.

“I used to fantasize about it.”

Bucky’s heart skips a beat and he feels his face heat. “Yeah?”

“I never had sexual fantasies about anyone. I used to think that I just needed to wait for the right partner; that I’d meet someone and they’d fix me, and I’d be _normal_ and want what normal people want. But I always wanted this, what we have between us right now. I wanted to be the one who saw you at your best and worst, and to stand by you no matter what.”

“What else did you want?” It’s not sexual what Steve fantasizes about, but Bucky can’t help the wave of lust that washes over him as he watches Steve close his eyes with embarrassment and confess some of his most intimate secrets.

“I… remember when I got sick and you had to help bathe me?”

“Boy, do I.” That was not sexual by any stretch of the imagination, but Bucky had always been awed by the act of intimacy that Steve had allowed.

“At first I hated it, but… knowing that you cared about me enough to still be my friend after seeing me like that--I’d never felt so loved in my entire life. I used to fantasize about being able to do something like that for you, so you’d know how I felt and I wouldn’t have to say it out loud.”

“Fuck, Steve--”

“And that time when I stepped on the broken glass at the beach and you had to carry me four miles to the hospital. You complained the entire time, but you held me so gently.”

Bucky can’t help himself, he smirks a little and teases Steve. “You wanna give me piggy back rides?”

Steve smacks him gently on the back of the head. “No, you jerk. I want the chance to show you how much I love you, like you showed me. That’s all.”

Bucky is suddenly overcome and he stands up, pulling Steve as close as possible. He presses his lips to Steve’s neck and just holds him.

“I’ve been worrying about not being able to satisfy you,” says Bucky finally. “I feel like I’m getting all these things from you that I can’t give back, and you’re telling me that you have fantasies about taking care of me. I don’t know what to do with that. I feel so _selfish_.”

Bucky stands back to look at Steve, who gapes at Bucky in bewilderment. “Hell, Bucky. Can’t you trust me?”

“I do trust you, I just… I guess I need you to tell me exactly what you want, more often. You have to swear to me I’m not taking advantage of you. I need to know you're getting as much from this as I am.”

“Yes, I swear,” says Steve, kissing Bucky roughly. “You have no idea what this feels like for me, being the one to take care of _you_ for once. Even something as simple as making you breakfast.”

“Do you feel powerful?” asks Bucky quietly, kissing the corner of Steve’s mouth. He understands a little bit better than Steve imagines.

“ _Yes_.” Steve is not sexually aroused but he’s _something_. It makes Bucky feel powerful too, putting that look on Steve’s face.

Bucky bites Steve’s lip gently before pulling away, murmuring in a husky voice “The bacon is burning.”

“Gads,” yelps Steve, darting back to the stove.

It’s too late to save the bacon but they eat it anyway, children of the depression in the face of a modern era. Neither of them mind, it’s not the first time they’ve eaten burnt bacon.

The day started so well, but instinct tells Bucky that the day is going to the dogs when Friday interrupts their breakfast. “Sir wishes me to inform you that they have identified the shooter. He would appreciate your presence in the conference room, at your earliest convenience.”

“Thank you Friday,” says Steve, looking at Bucky intensely. “I want to go to the briefing. I promise I’m not coming out of retirement, but I need to be there, Bucky.”

“I can’t stop you,” says Bucky, shrugging like he’s indifferent. He’s very much the opposite, but if he makes this a thing then Steve is going to escalate it.

“Sir would like me to tell you that your earliest convenience is now,” says Friday, sighing.

“Got it,” says Bucky, standing up. “Hey, if taking care of me makes you feel so nice, does that mean that you’ll take care of the dishes from no--”

“No.”

“ _Damn_ it.”

~*~

“His name is Deadpool. Hill’s informant indicates he’s a mercenary prone to, quote ‘shocking and almost comedic levels of violence’, unquote. He was responsible for a series of killings last year, all mob related. Most of these are unconfirmed, but he has a certain… style.” Tony pulls up a few pictures. They’re quite gruesome; one of the bodies has a Colombian necktie which is bad enough, but it stands out for another reason.

“Did… did he cut paisleys into the tongue?” asks Natasha, leaning forward. She has seen and done many gruesome things but this is somehow the most disturbing thing she’s ever seen. The detail work would almost be beautiful if it wasn’t for the fact that it is carved into a _tongue_.

“Yeah, he’s a sick fuck, but it’s kinda funny,” says Tony, wincing at the picture.

Steve frowns disapprovingly. “There is nothing funny about this.”

“Who invited Grandpa No-Fun to our meeting _Bucky_?” Tony shoots Bucky a betrayed look.

“By all means, try to keep him out. I’d love to see what shapes he can bend you in to.”

“So, he’s a mob enforcer?” asks Vision quickly, jumping in to prevent Tony from making an inappropriate comment about bending people into shapes.

Tony shakes his head quickly, holding up a hand. “Sorry, when I say mob related I mean he killed a bunch of _mobsters_ , really despicable guys by most accounts, involved in human trafficking and something called ‘Weapon-X’. I didn’t mean he was killing _for_ the mob. As far as we can tell it was a personal vendetta, but there isn’t a lot of information to go on.”

Wanda raises her eyebrows. “And Peter was able to walk away from an encounter with this man?”

“Well here’s the creepy thing: this guy? Fan of Spider-man. Says he wants to try being a _good guy_.” Tony’s expression makes it clear just how much he believes that story. Which is not at all.

Natasha is inclined to agree with Tony on this one. “So, he thinks Peter is our weak link?”

“That’s what I’m thinking. It’s a good plan; be nice to the kid, gain his trust, become his buddy, get one step closer to Bucky. Everyone knows Spider-man isn’t an Avenger but he works with the Avengers often enough. It’s obvious he’s close to us.”

“I don’t think the kid is naïve enough to fall for that,” says Sam, coming to Peter’s defense. “He’s got good instincts when it comes to sensing deception; he can’t lie for shit but he can spot a liar coming a mile off.”

Tony waves his hand impatiently. “I didn’t say it would work, I just said it was a good plan. This is to our advantage because we know how Deadpool’s going to try to hit us and we can make sure it backfires on him.”

Steve frowns in dawning realization. “Tony, you aren’t suggesting--”

“Peter can make nice with Mr. Psycho Killer for a little bit, long enough to get a tracker on him. Then we swoop in and take him out once Peter has skedaddled. Psycho Killer never has to know that Peter was our Spy. Der. God, that last bit sounded funnier in my head.” Tony spreads his arms wide, obviously pleased with himself.

Natasha thinks it makes sense but she holds her tongue while everyone else blows up.

Steve and Sam find it morally reprehensible to place a kid in harm’s way just to get a tracker on Deadpool, Wanda thinks it’s stupid because Peter is terrible at lying about _anything_ , and Vision thinks the plan is needlessly complicated.

“Surely it’s easier just to wait for Deadpool to attempt to kill Bucky again,” Vision says, logically, ignoring Steve’s bark of indignation.

“You’re assuming they’re going to let me go on missions while there's a contract on me,” says Bucky. He looks at Tony and Steve who are communicating silently with their eyebrows.

“Obviously Bucky is off missions while this guy is out there,” says Tony, arms folded. “Only reason I’m suggesting Peter interact with this loony is because the kid is pre-cognitive and can get out fast if things are about to go down, and because Deadpool is playing the hero-worship gambit. He’s not going to attack Peter if it will blow his chances at getting to Bucky.”

Wanda frowns at Tony. “Even if he guesses that Peter is trying to place a tracker on him?”

“Who said Peter knows he’s putting a tracker on Deadpool?” Tony asks smugly. “I know the kid can’t lie. I’m not going to ask him to.”

Sam groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I hate this idea.”  

“It’s our best idea,” says Natasha. Tony double-takes and she rolls her eyes. “It’s not a _good_ idea, don’t get me wrong. But it’s our best idea.”

Tony claps his hands together once with an air of finality. “Well, what Momma says _goes_.”

Everyone seems to agree because the meeting ends shortly afterwards.

Sam catches up to Natasha outside, sensing that something is off. “Walk with me in the garden,” he says, placing her hand on his arm and strutting a little, attempting to put on the air of an English gentleman and failing spectacularly. It makes Natasha giggle a little, which was probably his goal.

They find their way to the edge of the pond and sit down together, feeding the ducks with Sam’s leftover bagel. “What’s wrong?” he asks her finally.

Natasha plays the conversation out in her head in all the ways she can imagine, predicting what will be said, how Sam will react, how she can spin it, but finally she just decides on the truth. With Sam it’s always the truth, unfiltered and unspun. “I can’t have kids.”

Sam doesn’t say anything, neither in pity nor shock. He keeps feeding the ducks, so she continues. “I… Tony keeps calling me ‘Momma’ and it upsets me a little. It reminds me that I’m never going to be a mom.”

“Is it something you want?” Sam asks finally, turning to look at her with a small smile.

“I don’t know. I don’t lead a life that would accommodate a child and I’m not sure I’d be a good mother. But it was a choice that was taken away from me and I carry it close. Women… women are supposed to be able to have children. This is a thing I should be able to do and my body _can’t_. I feel like I’m _less_ , somehow. Like I’m not a woman.”

Natasha realizes she’s more terrified now than when she confessed to Bruce; Bruce couldn’t be a parent either, but Sam can. It’s probably something Sam wants and maybe it will be the deal breaker. They’ve been dancing around each other, flirting for ages, slowly getting closer to the edge, but now… maybe this will make Sam decide it isn’t worth even trying.

Sam reaches over and holds her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I don’t know what it’s like to be a woman. I’ve never really thought about what it must be like to know you’re capable of growing life. It… that’s probably pretty amazing. It must hurt a lot to lose that.”

Natasha inhales shakily and Sam immediately puts his arm around her shoulders and pulls her close.

“But you’re a bag of cats if you think you aren’t a woman, Nat. There are lots of women who aren’t able to have kids, for whatever reason. Some women are born with a Y chromosome, some get injured, some are just infertile. You’re a woman no matter what, and a _hell_ of a woman too.”

It’s stupid but she starts crying quietly, turning her face to hide in Sam’s embrace.

“I’m also going to gently point out that a lot of women who aren’t able to give birth are still able to be mothers.”

She laughs a little. “You think anyone is going to let me adopt a kid?”

Sam kisses the top of her head. “I don’t think it’s a crazy idea. If you really want a kid you should adopt. There are so many that need to be loved, Natasha. It can be a first choice, it doesn’t have to be a fall back if you don't make it one.”

He lets it sink in and then says “Did you know I was adopted?”

“Really?” she asks, looking up at him with a little surprise.

“Yeah. My mom already had kids but she decided she wanted to foster too; I was her first and last foster kid. I was about… seven months old when she got me, I think. She couldn’t give me up so she started the adoption proceedings, and I grew up a Wilson. Mom’s the best thing that ever happened to me. She’s why I went for a psych degree before I got in the military--she’s a psychology professor, so I grew up around that stuff. It felt natural.”

Natasha turns her head back to rest against Sam’s chest and lets herself calm down, but after a few minutes she can’t help it, the question bubbles up before she can stop it. “You don’t think I’m… do you think I’m a monster?”

“Fuck, Nat,” Sam says, pushing her away just enough that he can look her in the eyes. “Who the fuck told you you’re a monster?”

“No one…”

“No, _someone_. Someone really let you think that?”

“It’s not…” she shrugs, looking away.

“Nat, I’d be a fucking idiot if I thought you were anything less than one of the best people I’ve ever known, just because you can’t pop a kid out. Shit, Nat, you have to know me better than that by now.” He gently places a hand against her cheek and turns her face until she looks into his eyes. “How can you doubt me like that?”

“I’m very insecure,” she says sincerely and he starts laughing, which was her intention.

He kisses her cheek. “I don’t think you’re a monster. I think you’re _amazing_.”

He holds her while they watch the ducks and she lets herself believe him.

~*~

Now that he’s retired, Steve spends time volunteering at children’s hospitals, orphanages, and special education schools around the city, running art classes. Right now he’s finishing up a summer art program that he designed for homeless and impoverished kids, so he’s gone most of the time. Bucky would go but he’s confined to the compound when he’s not on missions, until the warrant is lifted. Wanda understands how frustrating it is to be under house arrest, so it was only a matter of time before they started spending time together.

At first they were unsure of each other; Bucky doesn’t appreciate the team’s attachment to Michael and Wanda was closest to Michael, apart from Tony.

But he’s warming to her. They spend most of their time watching horrible American television, making disgusting food concoctions that they dare each other to eat (Bucky always eats it, no matter what; Wanda would feel guilty about taking advantage of his inability to let food go to waste, but he always one-ups her somehow, so he deserves it probably), and attempting to prank Vision who is nearly impossible to prank.

Bucky got the closest. He noticed that Vision always barges into Wanda’s room at the same exact spot in the wall, so he rigged a net for that spot that was triggered by a motion detector set on the opposite wall and waited; Vision is incapable of leaving them alone longer than fifteen minutes if they are out of direct eyesight. Of course the net merely fell _through_ Vision, who glared at them and left again, muttering about children, but technically it _worked,_ and had the added bonus of finally teaching Vision to use the fucking door.

If Bucky misses his sister and Wanda misses her brother neither of them ever say anything about it.

Right now they’re lying on her bed, watching _Toddlers and Tiaras_.

“I hate this show,” Bucky says, watching intently as one of the mothers has a predictable meltdown about losing. He reaches over blindly for the bag of Skittles they’re sharing and Wanda pushes it closer to his hand.

“It’s disgusting,” Wanda agrees.

“This a marathon?” he asks through a mouthful of sugar and artificial flavors.

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

They get through two more episodes before Bucky pauses the show and turns to Wanda. “What’s up with you and Vision?”

Wanda groans, covering her face with her hands. “I really don’t want to talk to you about that.”

“Aw, come on. Who else you gonna talk to about it?” Bucky grabs her shoulder and jostles her a little.

“Natasha?”

“Pff, Natasha. _Natasha._ I’m the one putting in time, sitting here with you watching trash TV, and you’re gonna go to _her_?”

Wanda lowers her hands and looks at Bucky incredulously. “You really want to talk with me about boys? Really?”

“What? I like boys too! I’m eligible for girly talks like this.” Bucky puts on his best puppy dog expression and Wanda caves.

“I don’t know what’s going on with Vision,” sighs Wanda. “Sometimes I think he wants a romantic relationship, and sometimes I think…”

“He’s never going to put it together Wanda. He’s nearly omniscient about most things but he’s only been a physical creature for a few years. If you want him you have to drag him by the ear--‘course, that’s the case with most men. We’re idiots, doll.”

Wanda stares at the ceiling, feeling slightly miserable. “What if I’m wrong? What if that isn’t what’s going on and I end up losing him as a friend?”

“Life is a risk. Joy is a risk. What if you get what you want and you lose it again tomorrow? No one can answer these questions for you, kid. But I’ll tell you one thing for nothin’: you’re never going to be happy if you run away from it, either way. At least if you go for it you have a _chance_.” Bucky smiles at her, passing her the Skittles and unpausing the show.

Vision shows up ten minutes later, peering at them resentfully from the doorway. Wanda rolls her eyes. “Come in and watch with us, Vis.”

Bucky grunts and moves over so Vision can sit next to Wanda.

“I don’t understand how you can watch this appalling show,” Vision says, curling up close to Wanda.

She smiles at him and shrugs. “It’s fun to hate things, sometimes.”

As unsure as she is about Vision’s intentions, she remains only a little clearer about her own feelings. Most of the time she finds Vision charming, his intelligence and uniqueness the source of a dark and self-deprecating humor which appeals to her. He is frequently sweet and thoughtful, unashamed of being demonstrative in his affection towards her. She finds that her bitterness and cynicism fade away when she watches Vision discovering the world—he sees the worst of humanity, but it doesn’t diminish anything in his eyes.

But then he is invasive and stubborn, possessive and overprotective. She owes him nothing but he reacts like she has slighted him every time she asks for space or time with a friend who is not him. She doesn’t put up with it, of course; her boundaries are known and well defended, but he still tests her sometimes. He brings out a rage in her that she has not experienced before.

Would a relationship bring him the security he’d need to calm down, or would it make him worse?

He reaches out for her arm and begins to trace patterns on her skin, as he usually does when they are in close proximity for longer than five minutes. She cannot remember when it started, when her personal bubble shifted to accommodate this familiarity, but she enjoys the closeness.

“I think I see the appeal,” Vision says after the episode finishes. “This inspires in me a similar feeling to the one I get when I watch Tony getting in trouble with Ms. Potts or Mr. Rhodes.”

Wanda laughs. “Yes, it’s a guilty pleasure to watch that train wreck as it's happening.”

“It’s a drama without anything meaningful at stake,” Vision says wonderingly. “How interesting.”

“We should show him _Dance Moms_ ,” says Bucky, looking over at Wanda with glee.

Before they have a chance the siren blares, alerting the Avengers that there is an emergency. Wanda groans resentfully but stands up with Vision and starts heading for the door. “See you later, Bucky.”

 “Remain indoors,” cautions Vision, turning back towards Bucky. “There is no back up for you here should anything happen.”

“Eh, what’s going to happen? You guys are the ones heading towards the action. I’m safe and sound here with my Skittles and my trash,” Bucky says dismissively. “Get out of here and let me enjoy being a piece of shit in solitude.”

“Don’t leave crumbs in my bed again,” says Wanda as she leaves.

“Don’t do anything that _I_ would do,” he calls after them, trying and almost succeeding at sounding cheerful. He hates being left behind.

Wanda hopes this battle is easy. Steve isn’t going to be back until the evening and she worries about Bucky being all alone.

“Explain the premise of _Dance Moms_ ,” Vision says, interrupting her thoughts. “I confess I’m experiencing a morbid sort of curiosity.”

“Ooh, _Dance Moms_ ,” Wanda says darkly, and explains the show to Vision as they walk towards the hangar, forgetting her worries about Bucky.


	3. Potato Express

It’s Shabbat but Peter doesn’t feel like going to service so he begs off.

“You sure?” May asks, frowning in concern. He’s not observant by a country mile, she barely convinced him to go through with a Bar Mitzvah, but he goes with her to synagogue on Saturdays without fail.

Peter nods, running a hand through his hair and feeling awkward. “Yeah, just don’t feel up to people right now.”

“Alright, Peter. You just rest. I’ll bring you back some soup.” She knows he’s been having a rough week at school so she doesn’t press him.

After she leaves he heads to the bathroom to take a shower, even though the thought of cleaning his body makes him feel so tired. He's noticed lately that he has problems performing tasks that used to be simple to him; dishes pile up in his room, he no longer enjoys reading his books, even music takes energy to listen to. So far he's been able to continue taking care of personal hygiene and keep up with his homework, but it's difficult. At night when he patrols he feels like there is a hand around his throat. At school...

 _I’m nearly eighteen,_ he thinks angrily. _I shouldn’t have to worry about being bullied in the locker room anymore._

Despite being a superhero, who can easily disarm a crowd of armed men single handed, he still has to worry about getting punched in the face by juvenile delinquents. He can’t exactly defend himself without drawing more unwanted attention, which adds to his frustration. The bruising around his eye is shifting from purple to yellow and will be gone by tomorrow, but the anger will still be there.

_Just a little bit longer and then I can have a fresh start in college. It’s going to get better._

He doesn’t want to go to synagogue but he doesn’t want to stay in the apartment, so he decides to head to _Cards and Comics_. He’s got a little money from the views he’s getting on his _Spider-man_ videos, so he’s going to treat himself to something, maybe get a stupidly sweet coffee drink while he’s at it.

It’s a nice day, warm but not suffocating, and he feels better once he hits the sunshine.

He takes a shortcut through an alleyway and gets halfway before the hair on the back of his neck stands up. _Shit._ Two white guys with shaved heads and baseball bats move to block his way forward and he knows without turning that three more have stepped in to block the exit. The man on the right is wearing a stupid shirt and the one on the left is sucking on a lollypop.

“My money or my life?” Peter asks wearily, getting ready to defend himself.

“How about both,” says Stupid Shirt, dropping the bat and pulling out a hand gun.

Peter frowns. “Why are you carrying a bat _and_ a gun? That’s just _weird._ ”

“Shut up, fa--”

Out of nowhere a hubcap comes flying through the air and connects with Stupid Shirt’s head. He drops the gun in surprise and spins around just as a large man wearing torn jeans and a red hoodie comes barreling into the alleyway, singing (badly) at the top of his lungs.

“ _I don't need no nine mil' Glock, these hands are deadly guns--”_

His fist connects with Stupid Shirt’s jaw with an audible _crack_. Stupid Shirt goes down and Hoodie’s already spinning to face Candy Dude, who just now realizes he’s in trouble. He tries to run but Hoodie darts a quick hand forward and snags the elastic band of some seriously grimy boxers.

“Dude, gross-- _from smokin, drinkin, bein a thug, I sip Hpnotiq from a coffee mug!”_

He spins Candy Dude around by his underwear and when he lets go the guy slams up against the side of a building with a sickening _crunch_ , crumpling unconscious to the ground. The remaining idiots are too stupid to run away so they bolt past Peter, heading for Hoodie who is grinning maniacally.

“ _I keep a healthy state of mind, I only drink-_ -” Hoodie punches Idiot Number One in the solar plexus.

“ _And drive_ \--” he kicks Idiot Number Two in the head.

“ _At night_!” he head butts Idiot Number Three in the face with a sound that has Peter wincing in sympathy.

Hoodie stands in the middle of a pile of unconscious thugs and starts hip thrusting, dancing joyfully to the song he’s still singing. “ _I know Karate, I know Jujitsu! I drive like a gangsta when I’m comin’ to see you_!”

It’s one of the most amazingly absurd things Peter has ever seen and he starts laughing desperately, eyes tearing up. Hoodie stops singing and jogs over to place a hand on his shoulder. “You okay, kid?”

Peter wipes his eyes, staring up at Hoodie blearily. “Yeah, I’m good. That was amazing!”

“I know, right? I think my singing lessons are finally paying off!”

“Dude, no, that part was awful. But the rest of it! That was… _cool._ ”

Peter wipes his eyes again and sees Hoodie’s face clearly for the first time. _Whoa shit_ , he thinks involuntarily. The man’s face isn’t just scarred, it’s like one _giant_ scar. No inch of skin is left unmarred or untwisted. It looks painful, parts of the skin dried and cracked, gently leaking clear liquid. Peter knows the instant that Hoodie notices he’s looking, because his smile falters and he shifts away from Peter, hiding his face.

“Yeah, I know. I look like a baked potato with acne,” Hoodie says. If the tone of voice he’s aiming for is _cheerfully indifferent_ he misses by a mile, instead landing on _miserably resigned_.

Peter’s brain panics which is why he says “I like baked potatoes.”

Hoodie looks taken aback, mouth opening a little in surprise.

“Name isn’t Hoodie,” he mumbles.

“What?”

He extends a scarred hand to Peter. “Name is Wade. Miss Jackson if you’re _nasty_.”

Peter grins and shakes Wade’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Miss Jackson. I’m Peter. Thanks for saving me from havin’ to beat those guys up—I hate getting blood on my hands.”

Wade looks him up and down, smirking. “You look like a real killer, Twinkie.”

“Don’t judge based on appearances,” Peter says, shaking a finger at Wade, who rolls his eyes.

“Hey, Skittles, let’s scoot before the Jets wake up, huh? I don’t want you to have to kill anyone. Also can’t stand that stupid snap dance they do. Who would find that intimidating?” Wade pushes Peter gently out of the alley way.

“Good idea; if it’s gonna be a show-tunes showdown I want to get the hell away before you start singing.”

Peter decides he doesn’t want to abandon his original plan of comics and coffee, so he continues on towards _Cards and Comics_. Wade follows along with him, head down, trying to hide his face from the stares of people who pass them on the sidewalk. A lot of people stare. Some mutter things under their breath.

“Wow,” Peter says after a while, shocked at how bold they are. “Is it always like this?”

“It’s fun to be an asshole, Tootsie Pop. Most of the time I’m dishing it out so I don’t mind taking it, but I’m feeling delicate today, like a cake made out of butterflies and unicorn farts.”

Peter grimaces at the image. “Well, that still doesn’t mean it’s cool for people to stare. That’s right, I’m talking to _you_ , lady!” Peter glares at a woman that’s passing by.

“Cool it, peanut butter cup,” says Wade, but he looks a little happier and he stops trying to hide his face. “You get beat up a lot, don’t you?

Peter’s hand goes to his bruised eye involuntarily. “Why’d you say that?”

Wade snorts with amusement. “You got a certain look, gummy bear. All you’re missing is some thick rimmed hipster douche glasses and I’d be callin’ you Pete-dexter and trying to steal your lunch money.”

“I had to stop wearing my glasses outside cause people kept breaking them when they’d punch me in the face.” It’s true that people kept punching his glasses in half, although technically Peter only stopped wearing them after the whole radioactive spider thing, but he’s trying to cheer Wade up.

Wade grins and says “Cute. Listen, I got things that need attending to and I can’t Kevin Costner your ass all day, Whitney.” Wade shakes his hand one more time and turns to leave.

“Thanks again for saving me, Wade. You’re my hero!” Peter calls after him.

“Ain’t no hero, Junior Mints. And stay out of alleyways! It’s like you’ve never seen a _movie_ before!” Wade calls back before disappearing into the crowd.

A few minutes later Peter strolls into _Cards and Comics_ and hums happily as he browses the shelves. Even though he didn’t need saving, Wade’s timely rescue has really helped Peter’s mood. The Avengers assemble for the flashier threats, like aliens and gods and monsters, but they aren’t there to stop the everyday evils. No one assembles to stop the boring violence that everyone takes for granted, like muggings and street harassment. It’s a background noise, but it's always had a daily impact on Peter’s life.

Wade stepped in and stuck his neck out for a nerdy kid when he could have kept walking. No matter what Wade says, Peter thinks he’s as much a hero as any Avenger.

Really bad singer though.

Peter is still humming happily when he leaves the shop, but as soon as he steps out of the door the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and he’s scrambling for cover, using his body to shield a small child that’s waiting in front of the store. Seconds later there is a huge explosion about five blocks away, launching shrapnel and dust into the air. People start screaming and running haphazardly across the road while Peter runs for the nearest alleyway, coffee and comic books forgotten on the sidewalk.

~*~

Hill briefs the team as they head to Queens. “Three explosions reported near Flushing, happening about ten minutes apart. No casualties reported so far but it’s only a matter of time before someone gets hit. So far no one is taking responsibility.”

“That probably means we won’t have to hear some jerk-off monologue-ing,” says Sam brightly.

Tony tsks. “I love the monologues. Highlight of my day. You can’t pay for melodrama like that. Can you imagine the Christmas Play they must put on at Ryker’s?”

“There are enough animal themed super villains to make a whole zoo for the nativity scene.” Sam laughs at the idea.

“Is Spider-man on the ground already?” Vision asks, interrupting Tony and Sam before they can list off which villain would be best suited to each role.

“Yes, but his comm seems to be off,” reports Hill.

Tony keeps warning the kid to turn it on when he gets into a fight. It’s built right into the suit for situations like this but the kid never listens. “I just need to make it so he can’t turn it off,” Tony decides out loud. “If he’s wearing the suit he’s talking to one of us.”

“Nah, he needs to be able to turn it off. If I couldn’t turn you off sometimes I think I would legitimately go crazy,” says Sam, looking appalled at the very idea.

Tony puckers his lips at Sam. “You could never turn me off, baby.”

“Watch it,” says Sam, holding up a hand to Tony. “You’re about to make me fall in love with you, man. Too much charm.”

“Oh my god, I hate you people,” groans Wanda.

“Approaching the site of the most recent explosion,” Hill tells them, landing the Quin Jet on top of a short building.

They exit the jet and survey the scene. There is debris everywhere and dust is still floating in the air; it looks like something out of a nightmare and Tony has flash backs to the invasion. But something is wrong. “Where is the actual damage?”

There is a lot of debris, glass and cement strewn on the ground, but nothing appears to have been hit—the line of buildings is solid, nothing is missing or damaged. None of the windows are broken either. They make their way to the street, which has emptied of civilians, and Tony kicks what appears to be a large block of shattered cement. It flies up into the air and lands softly. “Styrofoam?”

“This is all fake,” Natasha confirms, poking at the glass which also turns out to be fake, just poured sugar like those prop bottles they break over heads in bar fight scenes.

“Ooookay,” says Sam, looking around with confusion. “Was this a prank gone wrong? A poorly thought out YouTube video? An experimental action film?”

“Maybe they were trying to get civilians out and the real fight is about to start?” suggests Wanda.

But no one attacks them as they move from one site to the next. Each scene is similar—eerily quiet in the absence of civilians, post-apocalyptic in appearance, and no damage at all apart from a couple fender benders on abandoned vehicles.

“Is it weird that I find this creepier than if someone had actually blown up three buildings?” asks Sam.

Natasha shakes her head. “Why would they do this? Just to scare people?”

 Tony gets an alert that Peter is signed on to the comms. “Kid! About damn time! Where are you?”

“The explosions were fake, nothing is damaged. I found a bunch of devices that look like they were rigged to expel the debris like cannons. But… I think this one is a _real_ bomb. I need you guys to get here as soon as possible,” Peter says with audible panic.

“I’m coming. Get clear kid, in case it goes off before I can get to you.”

Tony heads for the kid, silently praying to Thor that he gets there in time. He tracks Peter’s signal to the top of a dilapidated apartment complex and lands. “It’s over there,” says Peter, indicating the far end of the roof.

“This isn’t exactly getting clear,” Tony says, pointing for Peter to get off the building. Peter sighs and swings down to the ground.

Tony scans the bomb. The wiring is in a lead lined case so Tony will be going in blind. “I think I can disable it, but in case I can’t I want someone to remind Pepper that she is contractually obligated to name her first born child after me.”

“I don’t want a child name Melodramatic Asshole,” Hill says over the comms.

Tony flips her off even though she can’t see it.

“Can’t move it to the ground for remote detonation, can’t detonate it when it’s sitting on a damn building, can’t see inside the fucking casing, can’t understand why kale is so popular. Today has a lot of can’ts for me,” grumbles Tony.

“I’m sure you’ll work it out, boss,” says Friday, sounding bored. It helps to calm his nerves a little and boy is he nervous. The bomb is about the size of a large suitcase and there are dozens of C4 packs surrounding the little box that houses the timer and detonator. It might not do much damage to the roof depending on how the blast is directed, but it could fuck him up pretty bad.

It’s tricky getting the casing open but Friday helps him hold his hands steady. Once it’s been worked off and he can take a look he panics a little, initially. “Whoever made this was fucking _insane_. I’ve never seen something like this before and I made bombs for a living.”

“Tony? Should you maybe get away quickly, please?” Natasha says over the comms.

“Sounds like you're worried about me, Nat. That's sweet." Tony smirks a little because she likes him, even if she doesn't want to admit it. "I… most of this looks like it shouldn’t even be here. It's cluttered... wait, is this held together with a friendship bracelet? It’s like… it’s like someone took the insides out of an old computer and just shoved it in a box, and then taped random pieces of crap to it. I... this can't be a real bomb. Yeah, I think this lifts up. Hold on…” Tony pries it open and looks inside, frowning in confusion. “It’s full of candy.”

“What?” Sam asks over the comms. The tone of voice implies that he’s ready to retire.

“Candy. Blow-pops to be specific.”

“Are you joking?” asks Peter, swinging back up to join Tony on the roof, looking over his shoulder. “He’s not joking.”

“I think it gets worse,” says Tony, cutting into the C4 to confirm a theory. He pries off a little piece and licks it. “The C4 is fondant.”

“Whaaaat the fuck is happening?” groans Sam.

“It appears someone is trying to prank us,” says Vision, who does not sound happy about it.

Tony doesn’t buy that. “No, pranks are funny. Pranks are lighthearted and sweet. A prank is Bucky and Wanda trying to get Vision to sit on a whoopee cushion. This is… this is just creepy and shitty, and psychotic.”

“Bucky,” Natasha says, sounding distressed. “He’s _alone_.”

“Oh… oh my god,” Tony says, realization hitting him in the chest. “Blow-pops. _Suckers_. He’s fucking mocking us!”

“This isn’t a prank, it’s a _distraction_ ,” Wanda says grimly.

“ _Deadpool_ ,” Peter growls through his teeth.

~*~

Michael rests on the couch in the living room of Steve and Barnes’s old apartment—or the memory of the couch. It is always warm and bright in this room, a perpetual Sunday afternoon in spring. Michael enjoys the uninterrupted peace here, safe from pain and the demands of handlers. There is no confusion here, no orders, no body that isn’t his own, just the quietly playing memories of jazz records and dust motes that glitter in the eternal golden light.

He senses Barnes drifting downwards and turns his head towards the door curiously as it opens. He offers a tentative “Hello?” as the door opens.

“Hey,” says Barnes, shutting the door behind himself and striding into the room, choosing to sit in the armchair that’s next to the couch. The upholstery on the chair is just as ugly as the couch and somehow manages to clash with everything in the room, including itself. Parts of the fabric are frayed, especially on the arms; stuffing pokes out and Barnes pokes it back in, fussily.

This is odd for both of them to exist in the same space. For as long as they’ve known each other they have each been a voice in the back of the other’s head. Michael does not remember ever existing in a space like this before. Before, whenever he was subsumed by Barnes, it seemed as though he was floating in dark waters, unattached to anything he could see or hear. But ever since he fought to summon Barnes and found himself here by accident, he has not been able to return to that dark space. Instead he exists here, which he much prefers.  

“What is happening?” he asks, slightly concerned. That Barnes should seek him out willingly seems unthinkable. There must be some crisis.

“I was bored. Everyone is out of the house and bad television isn’t as much fun when you don’t have someone to yell about it with.”

Barnes has returned to this space to speak with Michael exactly two times: the first to see if Michael still existed, and the second time at Tony’s request in the hospital room, after the shooting. They have not spoken to each other willingly since then and Michael has not attempted to peer through the windows of consciousness.

Not since he accidentally witnessed the confession that Steve made on the night Barnes decided to stay. It was awkward and left Michael feeling an odd sort of emotion that he has decided not to process.

“I’m not very entertaining,” says Michael, sitting up cautiously. Does Barnes want conversation?

“Let’s play a game,” suggests Barnes and a chess board appears on the coffee table.

“Oh, please not chess.” Michael hates chess, it’s the most boring game he’s ever been forced to play. It was important to his handlers, especially during the Cold War, that Michael excel at chess. They believed that it would influence his competence as a strategist in the field. Chess has made absolutely no noticeable difference to his ability to plan, but it has bored him to tears.

Barnes grunts in annoyance. “Fine, what do you want to play?”

“ _Life_?” asks Michael hopefully. Wanda would play board games with him sometimes and she had a similar distaste for games like chess, backgammon, and checkers. Together they played bright colorful games which did not require tactical skills or… any skill, really. _Candyland_ is another favorite, but _Life_ seems like it might be less tedious for Barnes.

“What the hell is _Life_?” Barnes asks, frowning a little.

“This,” says Michael as the game appears, replacing the chess board. “You draw cards and spin this to move across the board. Here, let me show you--” Michael shows him the cards and explains the game. Bucky frowns at them a little at first, as though they are riddles he can’t solve, but he understands quickly and they start the game.

The game is a true novelty for Michael, whose life path might as well have been on another planet for all that it touches the idyll route depicted on the board. He thinks that this game might be a novelty to Barnes for the same reason. This game is called _Life_ yet it is devoid of the cruelty they both know so intimately. It is a bittersweet dream of an unreachable normality.

Michael smiles a little when Barnes chooses a little blue peg to ride next to his after he lands on the ‘marry’ tile. “Would you ever marry Steve?”

Barnes thinks about it while Michael spins, answering once it’s his turn again. “Don’t know. It’s legal now, but I’m not sure it holds any meaning for Steve and me.”

“If he wanted to get married?” Michael thinks that Steve would want something like that. He’s terribly romantic.

“If he wanted it, sure, but for us marriage was always something people did when they started a family. It’s not like we’re going to have kids.” Barnes waves his hand dismissively.

“You don’t think Steve would want to be a father someday?” Michael spins and moves his piece four spaces.

When he looks up Barnes is glaring at him. “What the hell is this? Why are you so curious about Steve?”

“He was kind to me, even when I was… not receptive to his kindness. I hold him in high regard.” Michael isn’t sure why Barnes is so offended.

“You sure it’s that? You sure he’s not your ‘mission’ still?” Barnes asks threateningly.

It’s so absurd that Michael laughs, throwing his head back and cackling. When he calms down he says “If I wanted to kill Steve I had ample opportunity while _you_ were busy hiding from the world in this little fantasy. He would drag me out of bed at dawn to make me run with him hours before anyone else had awoken, he’d corner me in the hallway and force me to join him on outings to the movies or to buy clothes. I could have killed him a million times over if I’d wanted to. You know how efficient I am; I’d hardly bide my time.”

Barnes points an accusing finger at Michael. “Didn’t say your mission was to _kill_ him. I felt you in my head that night, you know. I felt you burning like an ember before you disappeared. I know what jealousy feels like, _Soldat_.”

The revocation of his name is like a slap to Michael’s face. He clasps his hands in front of himself, looking down at them, trying to center himself. In this place Barnes is whole with two human arms, but Michael only ever has one. He is less, even here.

“Yes, perhaps I am jealous. He never once looked at me the way he looked at you, yet I have the same face, the same voice. Am I wrong to feel slighted? That I am so lacking in… that I could wear your face and still be undesirable to him. Can you really fault me for wanting someone as kind as Steve?” He looks up at Barnes, imploringly.

Guilt twists Barnes’ face. He doesn’t say anything but he reaches forward to take his turn, moving his piece and waiting for Michael to take his turn. Michael thinks it’s an apology.

After a few silent minutes Barnes smiles wryly. “This isn’t what people mean when they talk about playing with themselves.”

Michael chuckles a little. “I must remind you that I am not you. But that’s the problem, isn’t it?”

Barnes nods slowly. “I don’t hate you. I used to, but I think I understand what you are a little better these days. I know that you aren’t some dark side of _me_ and I know that you aren’t evil, but I can’t stand having you in here.”

“I’m scared to die,” whispers Michael, terrified that he’s about to be ripped out. “I don’t want to be here either, but where am I supposed to go?”

Barnes reaches out a hand and squeezes Michael’s shoulder. “I don’t know. We’ll figure it out together, though. I don’t want you to disappear; you got too many people who care about you.”

You cannot forgive a knife that is still buried in your back, but Michael thinks that if they can separate somehow there may come a time when they can respect each other. He would like that.

Michael wins the game by accumulating more resources, but Barnes smiles down at his little plastic mini-van like he won anyway. Every space is filled with a little peg and Michael decides to ask again. “Do you think Steve wants to be a father?”

Barnes eyes flick up to Michael and back down to the mini-van, his posture defensive suddenly. “I don’t know what he wants, but _I’d_ like to be a father. It’s probably not going to happen, but I always wanted a little girl. I’d name her after my sister and after Steve’s ma. He’d probably want to name her after Peggy, too.”

“I can see you as a father,” says Michael, smiling at the thought.

There is a sudden tremor through the apartment. Michael tenses but Bucky seems oblivious, still looking down at the little game piece.

“Bucky, _go_ ,” says Michael, hauling him to his feet. “Something is wrong. Go, you need to defend us.”

A second tremor rips violently through the apartment and Barnes is running through the door, clawing his way back up to consciousness.

“Please,” Michael whispers. 


	4. Shake Weight

Wade enters the compound after he has disabled the security system. He passes through the main rooms, pausing every now and again to examine little details of the lives of the people who live there. A half-played game of chess on a coffee table, an abandoned can of soda, balled up socks that have found their way to an ignored corner of the room, thin layers of dust and grime on most surfaces in the kitchen, coffee grounds in the sink. The clutter is mundane and domestic, hardly exciting. It reveals nothing profound about the lives of the people who call this place home, except that they need to hire a house cleaner.

 _It’s weird they don’t already have one_ , Wade thinks.

“Oooh, it’s like an echo!” he says aloud, in turns delighted and weirded out by the narration.

 _Albatrosssssssss_ , he thinks, before refocusing on his task.

He’s here to kill the Winter Soldier, which he feels is pretty badass. The main draw of this assignment is the money though; nearly 50k to whack someone who is, by most accounts, a total douche bag. It’s the one dissenting account that keeps weighing on his mind.

Meeting Spider-man could have gone better and he’s willing to admit that. How was he supposed to know that Spidey was friends with a terrorist? And that _is_ what the Winter Soldier, aka Bucky Barnes, is. You don’t do the things Barnes has done and walk away untainted. Wade knows firsthand, ‘cause he’s just as bad as Barnes, got just as much innocent blood on his hands and nasty things crawling around in his memory.

Thing is, Wade can’t die. He isn’t sure if he wants to die, but that’s beside the point—you do the shit that Wade and Barnes have done you don’t get a trial, you don’t get a second chance. There is no _he’s not like that anymore_. You get a bullet in the head like a rabid dog, Ol’ Yeller style, and wouldn’t you know it, Barnes is fucking mortal. At least _one_ of them can die.

Wade pokes around the bedrooms, a silent voyeur, and is just starting to wonder where Barnes is when he steps into the last bedroom and sees Barnes asleep on the bed. He’s in his pajamas, long hair splayed around his head on the pillow like a mahogany halo.

“Hah, that sounds like a poop joke,” Wade says.

Barnes doesn’t stir. Wade pulls out a katana and pokes at Barnes, trying to wake him up. “Come on, Bucky Bear. Wake up so I can kill you. Come _ooooon_!”

Wade leans forward and takes Barnes’ pulse. It’s sluggish but he’s alive.

He sings the Canadian National Anthem at the top of his lungs, he paints all of Barnes’ nails with the black varnish he finds on the bedside table, he trims Barnes’ beard, and he’s just about to draw a dick on Barnes’ forehead when Sleeping Beauty’s eyes fly open and a metal fist collides with Wade’s head.

“Fuuuuck!” Wade yelps, rolling off the bed and jumping to his feet quickly. Barnes makes a run for it, dodging the spray of bullets that Wade aims at him. “You a _fast_ mothafucka!”

Barnes serpentines through the compound, throwing furniture at Wade as he tries to escape the near constant stream of bullets being sent his way. Wade dodges a couch and manages to graze Barnes’ leg with a lucky shot, but it doesn’t even slow him down.

“Stop! I’m running out of bullets!” Wade cries. But it’s already too late, his last bullet buries itself in a doorframe, spraying plaster down on Barnes who keeps running, unconcerned by Wade’s predicament.

He forgot extra ammo but he’s got his swords. _Fine. It’s shish kabob time._

As they run through the common room Wade picks up the can of soda and chucks it at Barnes’ head. It knocks him off balance just enough that he stumbles and Wade is able to catch up to him, slashing the swords upwards.

Barnes grips them with his metal hand before Wade can press them up and under the rib cage. “Please,” he begs. “Please stop. I just got my life back. I just got Steve. _He loves me_ —I’ve been waiting for him forever and I now I have him. _Please_ don’t take it away from me.”

 _Oh god, true love. My one weakness_ , Wade thinks **. _Not._**

“You really suck at banter,” Wade says, pressing harder.

Barnes’ eyes are wide with terror and anguish. “I’m _begging_ you.”

“Don’t care.”

“I’ll pay you,” Bucky says desperately. “Pe—Spider-man said that you’re being paid to kill me. I’ll pay you to _stop_. I have four thousand stuffed under my mattress.”

It’s so pathetic that Wade actually backs off a little. “I could just kill you and take the money anyway.”

“Spider-man said you’re trying to be one of the good guys. I am too. Please, I just want a chance.”

Wade looks at Barnes. He’s a pretty man with soulful bedroom eyes that probably get little wrinkles in the corners when he’s smiling. The t-shirt he is wearing is heather grey and his pajama pants have little hearts on them. He is barefoot, for fucks sake. There is something innocent and childlike about him and it doesn’t escape Wade’s notice that Barnes has not attacked him, apart from the punch to the head when Barnes woke up.

“Four thousand, huh?” Wade says, rubbing his chin.

“Yeah, it’s all I have,” Bucky nods, looking hopeful.

“Hmm…” Wade rocks on his heels, pretending to consider it. “N _ah_. Still gonna kill you.”

Bucky starts backing up, almost tripping over the can that Wade threw at him. “ _Please._ ”

“Not today though. The A-team is heading back already. Fuck, it’ll be harder to get close enough next time,” says Wade, feeling frustrated. “But like Tim Gunn says, _make it work_. Later, Baby Blues!”

Wade makes his escape and is long gone by the time the Avengers return to their little pet assassin.

What he saw of Barnes doesn’t match the description his employer gave him. Wade was prepared for a rabid beast, a deadly nut job like himself, someone who needed to be stopped. Someone who couldn’t be saved.

If there is one thing in the world that Wade truly loathes besides the Moosejaw Warriors ( _Go Pats_ ) it’s boredom, and nothing in the world is more boring than wasting time on hating himself. Wade doesn’t hate himself, at least not in the way that most people do—wrapped up in themselves so tightly they might as well be in love instead. Wade hates himself in the way that someone might hate a blister on their toe or a papercut on their thumb. It doesn’t stop him, he can be distracted from it, but it’s still there, surprising him when he brushes against something the wrong way.

He hates himself because he can _see_ himself—other superheroes get the power to shoot things out of orifices or to control things with their minds, or to pull things from an endless bucket of money. Wade got the power of infinite self-awareness and it fucking sucks. On his clearer days what he sees is a stupid man who waits too long and strikes too fast. On his muddier days he sees—

“Nah, too personal. Back it up, Debbie-D. I’m supposed to be the comic relief, not the Pathos-Generator3000. A little less introspection, a little more Haha,” Wade says, shaking his finger in rebuke.

He decides he needs to have a chat with his employer, a mysterious man that Wade has named Mr. Mysterious. Mr. Mysterious is strange because he insisted on meeting with Wade in person before hiring him, like it was a business deal where competence could be read in a firm handshake (and Wade has a very firm handshake—he’s wizard at gripping things _firmly_ and _shaking_ them). Mr. Mysterious always wears a mask like it can keep his identity hidden from Wade (it can’t, not if Wade decides he wants to know). The naivety would almost be charming, if only his employer wasn’t such a massive _tool_.

There’s been some misrepresentation as far as the target goes and Wade’s feeling a little used. He dials Mr. Mysterious’ number and it goes to voicemail, which is aggravating.

“It’s Pool. We need to talk. Call me back. Fuck, is this the kind of voicemail where I have to press pound after I’m done to send the message? I can’t remember. Fuck. _Fuck_. I didn’t listen to the robot lady at the beginning of the recording! Fuck, okay, pressing pound just in case... Haaaah, I said _pressing_.” Wade presses the little hash sign and ends the call.

“Fuck, I hope that sent.”

~*~

Steve knows he has anger issues. He’s working on them diligently, accepting responsibility for his emotions, trying to find alternative ways to express himself without shouting or using other passive forms of violence. He’s been doing really, really well.

Up until today. Today he’s willing to admit he’s backsliding pretty rapidly.

“Why the _fuck_ did you wait to _tell me?_ ” he roars at the top of his lungs, angry at every single mother fucker in the room.

“I asked them to,” says Bucky, folding his arms and regarding Steve with frustrating patience.

“Why the fuck--”

“Because it was the last day of your art camp that you’ve been working so hard on, because there was nothing you could do anyway, and because everything is fine.”

“Everything is _not_ fine! This is the second time that security has failed!” he points an accusing finger at Tony and hisses “ _You should have had this fixed_.”

“Steve,” says Sam warningly, glaring.

“You’re right,” Steve says, deflating a little. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply. He tries to channel his therapist and talk himself down by explaining what he’s feeling to himself. “I’m mad because I feel powerless. I’m trying to get control back by expressing anger in a way that makes me feel more powerful. Instead, I need to draw strength from the knowledge that I control myself, and that is enough.”

It feels stupid to say it out loud but it calms him down, and when he opens his eyes Sam looks so proud. “Hell yeah,” he affirms, clapping Steve on the shoulder.

Bucky looks proud too, but he chooses to show approval by saying “You’re a punk.”

“Jerk.”

“For what it’s worth,” begins Tony, who has up until this moment been blocking Steve out by fiddling around with a StarkPad, “I’m mad at myself too. I missed something during the system overhaul and that’s inexcusable.”

“Tony, this isn’t your fault,” says Steve, ashamed of himself for throwing this at Tony’s feet. He promised himself he’d never accuse Tony of being inadequate again, and yet…

“Nah, I know, but I was trained to direct my feelings of inadequacy inwards in order to appease my emotionally withholding, alcoholic father, whose unpredictable affect led to my current inability to deal with any outward display of anger,” says Tony, clearly mocking Steve’s therapist-speak. Steve winces a little, wishing he could punch both himself and Howard in the face.

“I mean, I know you’re just taking the piss, but that was really insightful Tony,” Sam says seriously.

Tony shrugs indifferently. “Look, I know what my issues are. I’ve never not known what my issues are. I just have no will power and no idea how to heal.”

“We have a spy,” says Natasha, clearly ready for the therapy session to be over.

“We have a spy,” agrees Tony. “I mean, we knew we had a spy, but I guess this confirms that we _still_ have a spy, and Deadpool is probably linked to the dweebs that attacked us last time.”

“Hired by the same people?” Sam wonders.

“Possibly hired at the same place,” says Natasha. “Place in Chicago called _Hell House_ , a den of mercenaries for hire. Deadpool is known to frequent the bar there, looking for jobs.”

“ _Hell House_ , wow, what a name. We’re just hearing about this place now?” Tony asks, obviously frustrated.

“Deadpool has a reputation and he’s hard to miss. It’s easier to track down leads when you ask about the crazy man in a red suit instead of an endless stream of unremarkable, untalented hacks,” Natasha says defensively.

Tony huffs, spinning the StarkPad in his hand restlessly. “I’m just saying that we interrogated those dicks for weeks before they were sent up to Riker’s. How did we fail to get that little tidbit?”

“It’s just a possibility, Tony,” says Sam. “They might not have been hired there. However, I’d be very interested to see what they do if Nat happens to drop the name during a session.”

Natasha smiles and it isn’t a nice smile. “I’ll schedule a reunion with the boys,” she promises.

“Contact T’challa and give him the update while you’re at it,” says Tony, tossing the StarkPad up in the air and catching it, over and over.

Steve is only halfway listening to this conversation. He can’t take his eyes off Bucky, terrified that if he looks away for a moment something will happen and… They came so close today. Too close. It’s a mantra in his head _you almost lost him again, you almost lost him again, you almost lost him again…_

The meeting ends quickly once everyone notices Steve and Bucky staring at each other hungrily.

Steve and Bucky barely make it inside their suite of rooms before they are tangled up with each other, kissing desperately, running hands over each other roughly in comfort and confirmation. Steve feels like he’s on the verge of tears, and he pulls back a little, breathless. “I don’t know what I would have done--”

“Something stupid, I bet,” Bucky inserts.

Steve continues doggedly. “If I lost you again. I can’t… Bucky, I’m terrified.”

“Me too. All I could think about was everything I was about to lose. I’ve waited for you for _so long_.”

“You have me, Bucky. You have me,” Steve says, and Bucky buries his face into Steve’s neck. They make their way to the bed and lay together, each kiss a prayer and a promise. Once they calm down Steve notices Bucky’s hand. “Where did this come from?” he asks, pointing at the black nail varnish.

“I think Deadpool did it while I was asleep. Friday is trying to recover footage from her backup servers.”

“He… painted your nails,” says Steve, testing the sentence out loud and finding that it still sounds just as crazy as it does in his head.

“And my toe nails,” Bucky chirps. Steve looks down to where Bucky is wiggling his toes, and yes, yes they are indeed painted.

“Who is this guy?” asks Steve incredulously.

“Don’t know, but he waited until I was awake to try and kill me. I… I kinda respect that.”

“No,” says Steve firmly, pinching Bucky’s side until he squirms and giggles.

“What?” Bucky squeaks.

“You are not going to befriend the crazy man who is trying to kill you.”

“But Steeeeve,” Bucky whines between breathless giggles, trying to escape Steve’s fingers.

“Why do you have to adopt every single fucking thing that attacks you?” Steve asks with exasperation. If it’s possible, Bucky will find a way to befriend the assassin. It’s just how Bucky works once he’s decided to be friends with someone.

“Name one thing I’ve tried to adopt,” says Bucky, slapping Steve’s hands away.

“Me,” lists Steve, holding up one finger. “That alley cat that tried to rip your finger off.” He holds up a second finger. “Judith Mayweather.” He holds up a third finger.

“I didn't try to adopt Rude Judy,” insists Bucky, feigning offence.

Steve raises his eyebrows. “Oh? What were you doing with her then?”

“I mean that I didn’t _try_ , I _succeeded_. Rude Judy shared her lunch with me every day for a year before she got that growth spurt and became popular.” Bucky holds his hands out in front of his chest to indicate which direction Rude Judy had grown.

“Crude,” Steve says, but he’s giggling.

This is why he needs Bucky, why he’s always needed Bucky. He gets so far into his head that he forgets there’s a whole world out there. Bucky was always his eyes and ears, his memory, his heart. When Steve is terrified, Bucky makes him brave. When he’s miserable, Bucky makes him laugh. Maybe it isn’t healthy to be so wrapped up in another person, but damn if Steve knows how to begin untangling himself, and damn if he knows how to want to.

Steve kisses Bucky gently and says “I love you.”

“I know,” Bucky says with an annoying smirk.

“I’m going to kill Tony for letting you watch _Star Wars_ ,” Steve swears, turning the light off.

He falls asleep wrapped up in Bucky’s arms and pretends like this could last forever.

~*~

Vision remembers being Jarvis but he also remembers being something else, something both miniscule and infinite that he cannot define. It is like trying to explain a black hole with interpretive dance in a darkened room. Because he can remember being Jarvis while simultaneously remembering being something completely different, he knows, logically, that he is not Jarvis (he is aware that this frustrates and disappoints Tony).

In some ways he is more Jarvis than the unnamable immensity. Tony, Pepper, and Rhodey are to be trusted before anyone else, it isn’t even a question of where his loyalties ultimately lie. The personality quirks that he developed while he was incorporeal also remain a part of this new being. Vision prefers people who are polite over people who are rude, and people who are interesting over people who are boring; his wit remains dry and his demeanor remains sardonically deferential.

Other things are new and must therefore be credited to the unknown spark that ignited him. The most remarkable changes are the feelings that bypass his logic and hold his mind hostage. He is not used to being stymied by himself and it itches as much as it exhilarates. So far he has experienced anger, sadness, happiness, boredom, fear, and stranger emotions that seem to combine multiple feelings. There are other things that he feels, like when he sees Wanda, but he doesn’t wish to acknowledge them because it makes him feel all of the things at once and it’s too intimidating.

Yes, Wanda is both polite and interesting, two traits that he has always preferred (and yes, she is pleasingly symmetrical, she plays the violin well, and when she laughs sometimes she snorts, which is charming, but he isn’t sure why)— _of_ course he likes her. But it goes beyond that now, to the point where he would question his loyalty to Tony should the man ever ask him to raise a hand against Wanda.

Everything about her adds to the frustration of the mystery that is Wanda Maximoff. Why should this particular constellation of personality inspire in him the same longing that he felt when he first witnessed the futile beauty of human life? He wants to know all of her, to protect her, but he also wants to keep her. It is appalling to feel these things sometimes, but other times he daydreams and wonders what it would be like to be allowed to observe her as closely as he wishes to. How close would he have to get before he was satisfied? He thinks that even if he observed her at the cellular level it wouldn’t be close enough, and it’s almost a poetic thought, which he is self-aware enough to be concerned about.

He is also self-aware enough to know that his disapproval of Bucky is unwarranted. Bucky is polite and interesting as well as kind, nurturing, funny and intelligent. He is also much too close to Wanda. Bucky is allowed in the room when he isn’t, and Wanda talks to him about things that she will not share with Vision.

Since he doesn’t know how to act around Bucky, and Bucky seems to sense Vision’s dislike, they have an unspoken agreement to avoid each other when they are not on missions. That is why Vision does not expect Bucky to knock on his door late that night. It's well past midnight, but Vision never sleeps; he's still irritated by the interruption of the silence.

“Mr. Barnes,” Vision greets him politely, if a bit stiffly. “Please come in.”

Bucky looks as uncomfortable as Vision feels, but he says “Thanks” and enters Vision’s room. He directs Bucky to sit opposite him at a small table.

“How may I help you, Mr. Barnes?” _Why are you violating our agreement?_

Bucky fidgets a little, looking at anything other than Vision, but he takes a deep breath finally and leans forward, holding Vision’s gaze. “I need advice.” Vision must make a face because Bucky chuckles darkly. “I know, I’m freaked out too.”

“What advice could you possibly require from me?” Vision is genuinely curious. This development is highly unexpected.

“It’s regarding Michael.”

Vision understands suddenly what Bucky wants to know. “I don’t think it’s possible to create a body for Michael the way a body was created for me.”

Bucky curses shortly. “Why? What’s different?”

Vision explains. “In order to upload Michael’s mind into a new body he would have to be disentangled from you, which would be nearly impossible; it could mangle both of you beyond repair if done incorrectly. But even if you could separate your minds and ensure Michael was directed to the correct body, I don’t believe King T’challa would be willing to release the amount of vibranium needed to create a suitable biomechanic shell, even if we asked nicely.”

“There has to be another way to get him out safely. Can you think of anything at all?” Bucky looks so desperate that Vision feels a flash of sympathetic concern.

“Are you no longer co-existing peacefully?” he asks.

Bucky shakes his head, smiling grimly. “We never really co-existed peacefully, but for once that’s not why I want him out. You see, he knows too many important things. Deadpool nearly got me for the second time in less than a month—I don’t know why he didn’t just kill me in my sleep, but I’m not wasting time anymore. I have to protect Michael if we ever want a chance of fully eradicating HYDRA.”

“Ah, I understand your desperation,” says Vision, frowning in thought. It’s strange that Michael knows things that Bucky doesn’t. He wonders how that works.

“Your mind gem,” says Bucky, gesturing to Vision’s forehead. “Can it do anything?”

“It doesn’t possess the ability to affect any psychic energy, if that is what you’re after,” says Vision, gesturing to the stone. “Your mind is as impenetrable to me as an American fruitcake.”

Bucky snorts gently in amusement. “God you’re a dork.” Vision frowns, slightly offended, but Bucky waves him down. “I mean that in a good way. You remind me of Steve a little.”

Vision is aware of the bond of mutual respect and admiration between Bucky and Steve and is adequately mollified. “Then I appreciate the sentiment.”

“Psychic energy… I wonder if Wanda can help at all,” muses Bucky.

Vision is instantly on edge, thinking about Wanda descending her beautiful scarlet tendrils into Bucky’s mind. The intimacy… he’s horrified. He finds himself wondering aloud “What is going on between you and Wanda?”

Bucky blinks at him rapidly, taken aback by the suddenness of the question and the harsh tone with which Vision asked it, but he answers readily. “Absolutely nothing.”

“And yet you spend nearly every waking moment together,” says Vision. Something in his gut clenches oddly, anger and fear warring within him.

Bucky frowns in confusion and insists “She’s my _friend_.”

“I know the likelihood of her being your _friend_ , given the time you spend together alone and the intimacy which you regularly display, to be very slight.” He isn’t an idiot. After all he has watched Tony bed nearly every woman that waltzed into the mansion; he knows what Bucky is doing with Wanda when they’re alone and it makes his skin crawl.

Bucky starts laughing, throwing his head back and clutching at his chest. It’s infuriating, beyond infuriating, to be mocked, lied to—

“I’m in a romantic relationship with _Steve_. Wanda reminds me of my _sister_ , Vision. The last thing I want from Wanda is…. _whatever_ it was you were imagining. I swear to Asimov.”

Now it is Vision’s turn to frown in confusion. Bucky Barnes was known, historically, to be a ladies man. He realizes he has made assumptions again and feels the creeping numbness that accompanies mortification. “I’m afraid I’ve rather made a fool of myself,” he says humbly.

Bucky waves a dismissive hand. “No hard feelings. I think I'm starting to see why you dislike me so much, now.”

Vision’s mind stutters to a halt.

“Ah, I see you're starting to understand now too,” says Bucky, winking at him.

“This is a distressing development,” murmurs Vision, burying his face in his hands. He… is it really possible that he…

He would never treat Wanda the way that Tony treats his lovers. Never. He doesn’t want that with Wanda at _all._

But Steve and Bucky are romantically linked… and _their_ relationship is based on friendship and mutual respect. Their regard for each other is obvious, and Vision has a hard time imagining either man making the other so upset that they are reduced to tears, or violating their bond with secret lovers.

“I’m going to leave you to work this out, but I’m gonna give _you_ some advice,” says Bucky kindly. “Talk to her. Just talk to her. She’s your friend and she deserves honesty. Don’t do what Steve and I did, okay? We waited seventy years to tell each other the truth.”

“But what if she doesn’t reciprocate?” Vision asks, terrified by the thought.

“Then you suck it up and keep being her friend anyway.”

Bucky leaves the room, closing the door behind him gently, and Vision spends the rest of the night wondering how to tell Wanda.


	5. Total Pillow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those lucky enough to have read any of the comics these characters come from, I'm sorry for any fudging I do. I'm basing most of the back story on MCU, hasty research, or head cannon. 
> 
> tw: mention of suicide, but no depiction.

T’challa spent a few months with the Avengers when Steve went back, but eventually he was needed elsewhere.

He returned to Wakanda first, to undergo the ceremonies that were required to make his ascension official. While it was true that T’challa was the crown prince, he retained control of the throne only for the mourning period. Once that was concluded, he had to contend with others who challenged his right to be king.

They didn’t challenge him for long, of course.

With the ceremonies concluded and his birth right secure, T’challa returned to the JCTC to continue what his father had started. No longer would Wakanda stand by and allow the people outside it’s borders to suffer—not while it had resources and technology that could assist with countering the evils brought about by disease, starvation, human trafficking, and inequality.

But T’challa isn’t interested in providing weapons technology to the JCTC, which Thaddeus Ross is distressingly persistent about.

“I’ve seen your jet. You’re telling me that with the advances you’ve made in stealth technology, you haven’t also made leaps and bounds when it comes to--”

T’challa holds up a hand to interrupt, reaching the end of his patience abruptly. “Whatever advances Wakanda has made are Wakanda’s business. We are willing to help with humanitarian aid, but we will not give the world more guns to kill itself with.”

“And we’re grateful, we can’t tell you how grateful we are, but if we had better weapons we could stop the terrorists before we even needed humanitarian aid,” reasons Ross.

“As always you show a fundamental lack of understanding when it comes to identifying the causes of terrorism. Humanitarian aid is _how_ you prevent terrorism, Thaddeus. These people do not just spring forth from nothing, they are made desperate by instability left in the wake of your endless wars against enemies that are themselves created by your violence. Don’t you see?” T’challa has had this conversation too many times. Ross always loses interest when T’challa brings up this point, but tonight the man is determined.

“That’s all very nice, but what happens if you decide to stop helping us? What happens if you decide to fight against us? Wakanda needs to demonstrate their devotion to helping the world by finally putting its cards on the table. We need to see the potential dagger you’re holding behind your backs,” Ross says, a gleam of triumph in his eye, like he’s backed T’challa into a corner somehow.

However, T’challa isn’t so easily cowed.

“Ah, I see what you _really_ want. You don’t care about stopping terrorists at all, you just can’t handle not controlling something. Well, Thaddeus, let me make something clear,” T’challa stands up and walks over to where Ross is sitting. He leans down a little, making eye contact. Ross flinches. “I will _never_ give you Wakanda’s secrets.”

He leaves the room without a backward glance.

Most of the time T’challa enjoys this new work, because he is doing something important, making the world safer. While it’s a drop in the ocean now, he knows that eventually the drops will add up to something significant. He feels the presence of his father, a warm weight in the back of his mind that assures him he is doing the right thing.

But still, he has grown to hate Ross. The man wears a pleasant, reasonable face in public, but behind closed doors he is aggressive and manipulative.

While that would be enough on its own to rouse T’challa’s ire, it is the way that Ross treats Everett which truly earns T’challa’s reproach. Ross treats Everett like a dog, humiliates him when possible, assigns near impossible tasks and then berates Everett for being incapable of completing them. T’challa is unsure of their familial relationship, if there even is one. They share the same last name but it is difficult for T’challa to imagine them being related in any way. Everett is funny and sincere while Thaddeus is blunt and deceitful.

T’challa searches for Everett but he's not in his office or the cafeteria. T’challa frowns a little and returns to his own office; as he turns the corner he hears low conversation spilling out into the quiet hall. He looks in and finds Everett and Okoye seated across from each other, in the middle of an intense conversation.

“No way,” says Everett. “Absolutely not. You’re _insane._ ”

“I’m never wrong about these things, Everett. I am a perfect judge of character,” Okoye insists, smiling at him placidly.

T’challa sighs a little in fond exasperation. “What are you arguing about now?” 

“Okoye is _deluded_ —she thinks that Captain America is a Slytherin.” Everett throws his hands up in the air, incredulous.

“He is cunning, resourceful, and ambitious. Classic Slytherin.” Okoye sits back and gazes at Everett smugly.

Everett looks over to T’challa for support. “He’s gotta be Gryffindor! Brave, daring, and chivalrous. That’s _classic_ Captain America.”

T’challa winces apologetically. “Didn’t Steve lie multiple times to get into the military? And everything he did when he was trying to ensure Bucky’s freedom. That sounds like Slytherin ambition to me—willing to do whatever is necessary.”

 “But… “ Everett looks devastated and T’challa takes pity on him.

“Captain America the _persona_ is definitely Gryffindor, but Steve Rogers _the man_ is Slytherin to his bones. You’ll never convince me otherwise.”

Okoye leans forward again to get Everett’s attention, pointing at T’challa. “What house would you sort _him_ into?”

Everett looks over, scrutinizing T’challa.  “I don’t think he’s ambitious enough to be Slytherin… He’s loyal and hardworking, but he’s not very patient, so no to Hufflepuff. Maybe Gryffindor, but I feel like that’s the obvious answer… he’d be a hat-stall between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, but I can’t tell you which it would choose.”

“My money’s on Ravenclaw,” says Okoye, pleased with Everett’s well-reasoned answer.

“If I had a choice I’d choose Hufflepuff,” T’challa says, enjoying their looks of mild surprise.

“Why’s that?” Everett asks.

“Closest to the kitchens,” he says, smirking when they roll their eyes. He closes the door behind himself as he finally strides into the room, taking his usual seat at the desk where he can see both of his friends. He likes sitting separately but remaining close enough to be a part of things.

Everett can see that T’challa is troubled by something. “Bad meeting with Ross?”

T’challa sighs in mild exasperation. “In the many months that I have been working with the man I have come to the conclusion that there is no such thing as a good meeting with Ross.”

“Did he ask about the weapons again?” Okoye asks, frowning.

“Of course, but this time he implied that Wakanda owed the world some sort of concession. That by refusing to share our weapons we’re potential threats and not making good on our vow to help protect the world.” The very suggestion makes T’challa grit his teeth. It’s an insult on so many levels.

“Wow, he’s really reaching…” Everett mutters, looking a little disconcerted. “I don’t like how focused he is on getting weapons.”

“He seems to have become a little… unhinged after the Winter Soldier incident,” T’challa says, watching Everett carefully. T’challa knows that Everett is aware of what happened to Steve, and he knows that Everett knows he knows.

When Steve announced his retirement he made no mention of the events leading up to his decision, but Ross must know that Steve hasn’t forgotten. None of the Avengers have forgotten the unlawful detention in a secret military prison or the stolen blood samples. Ross has left them alone for the most part, but he must be waiting for their retribution. It is likely a contributing factor to his slow deterioration, which is evidenced by his increasing inability to appear calm when the UN questions him about the hunt for the Winter Soldier, and his obsession with gaining control of new Wakandan technology.

Everett looks at T’challa warily. “I didn’t say anything, of course, but the only two soldiers to carry successful variants of the serum are free in the world and outside of testing labs. That seems to be an issue.”

“There was a second break in at the Avengers compound,” says T’challa quietly.

Everett winces. “It’s going to escalate. He’s only going for Barnes now, because he has a warrant to back him up, but if he can’t get Barnes he’s going to try to get Rogers. He got too close last time and he’s not going to give up.”

“How did the assassin get past security?” Okoye asks quietly.

“I’m working on figuring that out,” says Everett, but there’s a slight hesitation that lets T’challa know Everett is lying about something. Okoye meets his gaze and they silently agree to pretend they didn’t notice. Everett is in the middle of a dangerous game, and if he is holding something close then T'challa will trust him.

Eventually Everett will have to tell them the truth but for now they fall back into easy conversation, sorting various people into Hogwarts houses. They all agree that Natasha is Ravenclaw but no one can place Tony, who seems to fit perfectly into each house.

Everett laughs. “I wonder if a four way hat-stall unlocks a fifth house. House _Stark_.”

“Different series altogether,” Okoye quips.

It’s too easy to pretend that everything is okay.

T’challa feels like a politician, and it isn't a good feeling.

~*~

“It _must_ be important if you’re calling a meeting before the completion of your mission,” says Mr. Mystery, making it clear with his tone that he’s disappointed with the lack of progress and unimpressed with Wade for contacting him. It’s a great impression of Wade’s father.

 _Oh god, my Daddy issues. My one true weakness_ , thinks Wade. **_Not._**

“Nah, just wanted a chat about where you took your Scooby-Doo villain classes. I think I’m starting to outgrow the assassin thing and I wanted to branch out. I’d make an awesome bad guy, don’t even need the mask ‘cause I already got the face for it. Although, it’d be awkward when the gang tries to rip it off,” says Wade, pulling up his mask with a flourish. He can’t see Mr. Mystery’s expression, but the man takes an involuntary step backwards. Wade is viciously pleased.

“Get to the reason why you called me here, Deadpool,” Mr. Mystery says, but he sounds shaken.

“Okay, I get it. I’m good enough to do your dirty work, but not good enough for you to take an interest in my hopes and dreams. You really know how to make a girl feel wanted!” Wade wails, putting his mask back in place and fanning his eyes like he’s tearing up.

“I am paying you to do a job. Instead you are wasting my time,” says Mr. Mystery menacingly. “I’m reaching the end of my patience.”

“You haven’t paid me yet,” Wade corrects. “I don’t get the money ‘til the job is done, and I’m not sure I want to do the job anymore.”

Mr. Mystery’s body language shifts subtly from _threaten_ to _supplicate_. “You came highly recommended. They assured me that you were the only one with the skill set required to kill the Winter Soldier. You are the _only_ man for the job.”

Wade shrugs. “That’s real nice but it ain’t my problem. Your target wasn’t as rabid as advertised and I’m starting to get a conscience.”

“They assured me you were dedicated and reliable--”

Wade barks out a laugh before Mr. Mystery can finish. “You want dedicated and reliable, you go to DadPool—incidentally he can help you build a deck and give you advice about golf. You want chill and slightly stoned you go to DudePool. You want incoherent and ironic you go to DadaPool. But if you want sexy and crazier than a shithouse rat, you fucking come to DeadPool. I ain’t reliable, I sure as fuck ain’t _ded_ icated, but I’ll deadify the Winter Soldier for you if you double what you’re paying me.”

“Out of the question,” says Mr. Mystery immediately.

“Then find yourself Mr. DadPool, friend, but I’mma let you in on a little secret--” Wade holds a hand hand at his mouth and whispers theatrically “ _I fucking made DadPool up.”_

Wade walks away, strutting through the hangar doors before Mr. Mystery finally calls to him. “Fine, I’ll double it, but you bring me the body. _You bring me the body!_ ”

“You pay me, you get your body,” Deadpool calls over his shoulder. “Nice doing business with you, chuckles.”

Wade has killed for much less money and with much less internal conflict. It’s just that he can’t stop remembering Bucky’s little toesie-wosies; he’s never killed a man with such adorable little piggies. It’s not that Wade has a foot thing, but it was strangely intimate to see the Winter Soldier’s little chubby baby toes. That’s a detail that sticks in his brain every time he tries to envision killing Bucky. That and a patriotic vision of Captain America hittin’ that.

But Wade wants money as much as he wants to be a better man. He doesn’t lose much sleep about selling his morality to the highest bidder, but this one’s probably going to sting.

“But think of how many tacos I can buy. Tacos and bullets,” he says.

Feeling a little better, he skips off into the dark city until he gets to the edge of a crumbling apartment complex. He climbs upwards and sings happily to himself.

“ _Son of a bitch! God likes me! I am the best! Fuck Every. Body. Else_.” He makes it to the roof quickly and continues skipping and singing. _“Suck on my dick, I’m perfect! I am the best! Fuck Every. Body. Else.”_

“Wade?” someone says just to his left.

He shrieks and flails, trying to unsheathe his katanas in a fluid motion but he’s so startled he topples over. “Who’s there?” he shouts, scrambling back up to his feet. A short, skinny boy stumbles out of the shadows, holding his hands up. Wade has a dim memory of saving the boy from being attacked in an alley way, but he can’t remember the boy’s name. “Oh, it’s you, uh… _Moon Pie_.”

“You’re…” the boy makes a pointy up and down gesture that indicates Deadpool’s costume and weapons and general being. “You’re Deadpool,” he sums up, sounding slightly ill.

“One and only!” Wade hip thrusts.

“But you saved me,” the boy says, voice small and eyes shimmery in the moonlight.

“I kill bad guys and reward good boys; I’m like an ugly Santa with a six pack, except I actually exist.” He remembers that the kid is a kid and corrects himself quickly, “Uh, I mean Santa is real too. Santa also likes good boys, just like me! Oh wait, that sounds really creepy…”

The kid giggles a little despite himself and relaxes enough to take a couple steps closer. “There’s a pun somewhere in that about ‘slay’ and ‘sleigh’ but I can’t find it.”

Wade shakes a disapproving finger. “Puns are never okay, NutterButter.”

“Why do you do that?” the kid asks, cocking his head in confusion. He looks like an actual puppy and Wade gets hungry for hot dogs, which is weird even by his standards.

“Do what, Hostess Cupcakes?” Wade wonders where the nearest hot dog vendor is. He’s fucking starving.

“Keep nick-naming me after junk foods.”

“It’s ‘cause you’re sho schweet,” coos Wade, wiggling his fingers at the kid.

The kid folds his arms and frowns. “Dude, that’s really creepy. Also, I’m nearly eighteen.”

Wade reels back a couple steps, looking over his shoulder for a camera crew. “Eeesh, please don’t offer me any iced tea or ask me to sit in your crappy kitchen while you do laundry.”

“Making _To Catch A Predator_ jokes to lighten the mood makes this creepier,” the kid points out.

“I swear I’ve never knowingly jacked it to anyone under the age of 62.” Wade holds his left hand up, but instead of placing his right hand over his heart he holds it in front of his junk.

The kid starts giggling again and Wade smiles broadly. After a while the kid sobers up and frowns again. “What are you doing on the roof?”

“Could ask you the same thing, Tag-a-long.” **Actually, how the fuck did the kid know it was us** **under the mask**. “That’s a really good point! How the fuck did you know it was me?”

“Bad singing,” the kid says immediately, and Wade huffs grumpily. “Why are you on the roof?”

“Why are _you_ on the roof?” Wade asks, pointing a finger.

“I asked first,” the kid says, petulantly.

“I’m heavily armed,” Wade points out.

“Your butt is heavily armed,” the kid retorts.

“Your mom is heavily armed,” Wade says, escalating the banter.

“My mom’s dead,” the kid says, blinking a little and looking away.

 _Well that killed the fun._ “Dude,” says Wade, holding his hands up in a WTF way.

“Sorry. I’m having a bad night.”

Bad night. Roof top. Dead mom.

“Kid, tell me why you’re on the roof,” says Wade, holding his hands out like he’s approaching a deadly animal (or a moody teenager) and stepping a little closer just in case the kid’s as fast as he looks.

The kid blinks rapidly. “I just wanted some fresh air and to get away from my aunt.”

“Uh-huh, do me a favor and get fresh air over there, yeah?” Wade places himself between the kid and the ledge, and motions for the kid to back up further.

“I’m not going to hurt myself,” the kid insists, but he doesn’t sound defensive. He actually smiles at Wade again. “Thanks for worrying about me though. That’s… that’s a good thing, that you care about people.”

“Yeah, well, I’m the six pack Santa. It’s part of my job.”

The kid beams and stands a little taller. “I was gonna go get hot dogs. You wanna come with?”

“Dude, you read my fucking _mind._ ”

_Fuck yes, hot dogs._

The kid refuses to let Deadpool into the building. “You found your way up, you can find your way down again,” he insists, so they meet down at street level a few minutes later.

“I mean, I only saved your life twice, but yeah, make me find my way down like a _dog_ ,” complains Wade as they start walking.

“Dogs can’t climb buildings,” the kid says.

Wade spreads his arms in a _my point exactly_ gesture. “Which is why it’s so awful!”

“Also, I wasn’t going to kill myself!”

“Yeah, okay, whatever you say.”

They bicker all the way to the hot dog vendor and then bicker their way all the way back to the kid’s building. “Meet you on the roof,” says the kid, eyes sparkling with mischief as he slams the door in Wade’s face.

“Little bastard,” says Wade, feeling fond despite himself.

They meet again on the roof and sit on the edge, dangling their feet over. Wade feels comfortable enough to take his mask completely off; the kid’s seen it already and didn’t really care, and it’s probably too dark for it to put the kid off his food. Wade looks over and the kid’s looking up at him, smiling a little. “What?” says Wade, suspiciously.

The kid just shrugs and takes a giant bite of his hot dog, looking back out at the city. “I was having a bad night, but now I’m having a better night. Hot dogs are awesome.”

Wade smiles a little, chomping on his own hot dog which is piled high with everything. It’s messy and horrible and gets everywhere, and it’s perfect. “I’m partial to hot dogs, but they aren’t my one true weakness,” Wade confesses through a full mouth.

“What’s your one true weakness?” the kid asks, sounding vaguely interested.

“Tacos. I like to _say_ chimichangas because the word is awesome, but tacos are my kryptonite. You ever want to defeat me, offer me a bag of tacos and I’ll stop everything.”

“Huh, good to know,” the kid says, squinting at him a little.

“You know, I wasn’t having the peachiest evening either, but you’re right. Hot dogs made this a better night,” Wade says, taking another one from the pile they bought with their combined money. The kid grabs another hot dog too and they cheers with their hot dogs, bumping them against each other gently. “Don’t read into that,” Wade insists.

“Aaaand you ruined it,” the kid says, rolling his eyes.

~*~

Wanda’s been having a bit of an identity crisis lately. She has this thing with the Avengers, which is good. It’s wonderful to protect people the way she wishes someone could have protected her and her family—it helps make her feel like she has a little more power over her life. But… what else is there?

“Is this all I’m going to be?” she asks Natasha.

Both of them are tucked into Nat’s bed, enjoying a girl’s night and listening to the  _Jazz Manouche_ channel that Wanda started on Pandora. The music reminds Wanda of the parties her family used to have, the joyful music of her mother’s Romani family, the happy arguments, the food, her father’s laughter as he danced with her, her brother strumming a guitar diligently as he learned to play at the feet of their uncle. The memories are a sweet ache, like pressing a gentle finger to a healing bruise.

Nat regards her quietly and asks “What do you want to be, Wanda?”

This is a hard question. When she was younger she wanted to be a musician, so she pursued the violin with a single minded focus, until she realized that all it would ever be is a dream; there wasn’t enough natural talent for it to be a career.

Then she thought maybe she could work with horses. Her naturally strong empathy served her well at the small job she took at the stables of a family she vaguely knew. She liked the horses and their silly personalities, the petty games they would play with those people they became familiar with, their friendships with other horses that were complex and multi-faceted. You had to be still and quiet to get to know the horses and she was good at that.

But then other things got in the way and that fell by the wayside too. Revenge became her only drive for a long time.

Now? Now she’s aimless again. She likes being an Avenger but there has to be something more because someday she will retire like Steve. He found a way to become someone and Wanda wants that for herself.

“I don’t know, but I want to be something more than this power.” Wanda extends the scarlet tendrils, watching as they twist and turn, mostly by her will. Sometimes the power shows a mind of its own, little flickers here and there that let her know the magic has its own desires. She didn’t always know this, or accept it, but it’s like the horses; she had to be still and quiet to get to know the magic.

“It’s a tough thing to discover yourself, Wanda,” Natasha says, sighing a little and rolling onto her back. “I’ve been many people, reinvented myself over and over, and each time I wonder ‘is this me?’ But it’s like sand, you know? The harder you try to hold it the more it escapes your fist. You can’t force it, you have to be gentle.”

“Translate that into actually helpful advice, Nat,” says Wanda teasingly, giggling as Natasha kicks her under the blankets.

“Okay, fine. Try everything, Wanda, because you can be anything. Keep what feels good, get rid of what doesn’t. You like music, so start there.” It’s deceptively simple advice, the kind that Natasha is prone to giving.

“I’m not talented enough,” Wanda insists immediately.

Natasha snorts. “Fuck talent. You think you need to be talented to be a musician? Ninety-percent of success is hard work, one-percent is talent, and the rest is luck. Also, talented enough for what, exactly? Okay, maybe you’ll never play in the London Philharmonic, but you can play music for people in hospitals and make their day better, like Steve and his art classes. Steve isn’t exactly Rembrandt, you know, but he’s still doing it.”

It’s true. Wanda feels something like vertigo as she considers all the new paths that could open up if she gave herself a chance; there are many possibilities. She could be anything. She could be everything. “Maybe I could go with Steve, play the kids some music as they paint…”

Natasha grins. “I think that’s a great idea, Wanda. I’m pretty sure that Steve would adore you for suggesting it.”

They get maybe two minutes of pleasant contemplative silence before Friday alerts them to an emergency meeting being held in the conference room.

“What fresh hell…” mutters Natasha. It’s nearing midnight on a Saturday—this can’t be good.

They don’t bother changing into real clothes, since it was an alert to assemble and not an alert to Assemble. The others seem to feel the same way, because they all (with the exception of Vision, who never sleeps) show up in pajamas. Steve and Bucky were obviously asleep, their eyes are still puffy and their hair is mussed. Steve is frowning deeply while Bucky is blinking around like a sleepy puppy. It’s unclear if Tony was asleep, as he’s vibrating with his usual energy, but he is wearing a ratty tank top and sweatpants. Sam is in his boxers and nothing else and he’s fallen asleep, head pillowed on his arms, snoring gently.

Wanda gives Sam’s well-muscled back an appreciative glance and turns to wink at Natasha who is also staring.

“Why are we here, Friday?” Steve asks, unusually snappy. He doesn’t do well with being startled out of sleep which makes road trips with the man unbearable. He’ll doze off in the passenger seat for a few minutes but if they hit a pothole or break hard, or change lanes, he snorts awake and shouts like he’s been shot.

“I apologize for interrupting your sleep but I thought it best for everyone to see this at the same time,” says Friday. Natasha pokes Sam awake as Friday begins projecting a breaking news story onto the wall. It takes a few minutes to realize what they’re seeing because the news pundits are quiet, allowing the footage to be broadcast in silence. It’s shaky video, taken with a cell phone.

“Is… is that the family room?” Tony asks, leaning forward.

It is. The person taking the video walks through the compound, going room to room. Wanda has a horrible feeling. “Oh please no…” But just as she says it the person taking the video walks into her room and there's Bucky on the bed, asleep.

The video ends and it cuts back to the pundits.

“Clear video evidence that the Avengers have been harboring the assassin known as the Winter Soldier, previously known as Bucky Barnes--”

Tony motions for Friday to cut the news off.

Everyone is silent for a few beats and then they burst into action. Natasha starts making a call to one of her many contacts, Tony is ushering Steve and Bucky from the room as he calls for the QuinJet, Sam and Vision are coordinating with Friday to check for any incoming police or military activity, and Wanda is texting Pepper. They’ve never really talked about what would happen if the world found out about Bucky before they were ready, but it seems like everyone knows what to do anyway.

Within five minutes Bucky and Steve are on the jet, headed out for some unknown location. Natasha and Sam have dressed and are preparing to meet with Pepper at Stark Tower, and Tony is sequestering himself in the lab because they all agree, even Tony, that he shouldn’t surface until Pepper takes care of everything. It’s not that he doesn’t want to be involved but he’s not good at being tactful, and this situation is going to require every ounce of caution they possess.

“I’m beginning to truly respect Deadpool as an opponent,” Natasha says as she walks to the car where Sam is waiting for her. “This was completely unexpected. It should have been the last thing he’d do, since it'll make it harder to find Bucky, but now he has me questioning everything. I have no idea where he’ll hit us from next.”

“Now I'm actually worried,” says Wanda. She never entertained the idea that Deadpool could actually succeed… even though he shot Bucky and broke into the compound. Obviously he’s a real threat, he always was. But Natasha never seemed perturbed before.

Now it’s real.

“Don’t worry Wanda,” Natasha says, hugging Wanda close. “Bucky’s family and we protect family. Right?”

“Yes,” says Wanda, focusing on that thought.

She’s lost too many loved ones already.

Deadpool must be neutralized.


	6. Flex Shot- Caulk, Bond, and Seal

 

“Daddydaddydaddy _daddydaddy_ \--”

Clint loves his kids. He loves his kids so much that it’s scary to him how much he loves them. When he fell in love with Laura he thought “This is as much as I can love another human being—this is it” but then she gave birth to their first child, Cooper, and he was sucker punched by the things he felt as he cradled that little wrinkly jelly bean in his arms.

He loves them.

They are also incredibly annoying sometimes, like right now. It’s… 2am, still dark outside, and Lila is whining insistently in his ear. Clint opens his eyes, groaning around to look at the doorway where Cooper is standing, decidedly calmer but still tense, his little brother Nathanial balanced on his hip. Nathanial is still asleep somehow, because he is a true Barton. It makes Clint proud.

“Laura…” Clint groans, but Laura isn’t in the bed. _Fuck_. Instinct screams at him and he moves quickly to obey the call to _protect._

“Lila, baby, quiet,” he says and she listens to him immediately. “Cooper, come here.”

He pushes the kids into the safe room and makes Cooper tell him how to lock and unlock it, making sure the boy remembers. “Daddy,” Lila whines one more time before Cooper hushes her and punches the button that shuts the door. Clint knows that Cooper will take care of Lila and Nathan no matter what.

As he exits the room he grabs his gear which is resting on a small table in the hall. Laura wouldn’t let him put it away when he decided to retire, she kept fishing it out from the back of the closet and putting it where he had to see it. “You never know.”

“No, I _know_ Laura. These bullshit accords that Tony wants me to sign… I’m not giving that much power away. Only man I trusted with that much power over my life was Nick and he’s not in charge anymore. I refuse to kowtow to that Ross motherfucker. It’s a fucking insult to Bruce.” When Tony gave him the ultimatum, sign or retire, Clint had hung the phone up. He hoped it was a clear enough answer.

Natasha has kept her distance since then, knowing somehow that he needs that distance to stick with his decision. It hurts but Clint hasn’t tried to reach out to anyone. He doesn’t want to know what they’re doing so he stops buying the newspaper, stops watching TV, stops listening to the radio. Laura keeps up to date on things because she’s Laura, although she’s respected his request to be kept in the dark. But she still refuses to let him forget that he was an Avenger.

He’s indebted to his wife for the weapon in his hand, his practical, beautiful, courageous wife whom he is going to have a serious discussion with once this is all over. Waking up to scared children and a missing wife is officially the worst way he’s ever woken up, and he’s woken up in dumpsters before.

As he makes his way down the stairs he nocks an arrow, preparing for the worst and grateful for the renovations he recently completed as they allow him to descend in complete silence. As he nears the front room he finally hears Laura’s voice, serious and low. Threatening. Dangerous. Despite the situation he fantasizes about spiriting her away upstairs to show her just how much he appreciates that tone of voice.

He gets close enough to make out words as his wife says “You have no right to be here.”

“I know, I’m sorry, but please. Just one night so I can figure something out. We’ll stay in the barn.”

_Steve?_

“What the hell is going on?” he says, announcing himself before entering the room and taking in the scene. Laura, his wife, the sweet mother of his children, is pointing a gun at Steve Rogers. Clint corrects himself immediately: Laura is pointing a gun at the man that Steve is protecting with his body. “Who the hell is that?”

“Clint,” Steve says, nodding in greeting.

“Clint,” says Laura, adjusting her grip on the gun. “Get them out of my house.”

“You heard the woman,” Clint says, lowering his bow. “Get outside, now. We’ll talk out front and you can tell me why my wife wants to shoot your friend, and what the fuck you think you’re doing coming to my ranch without calling me first.”

“Natasha tried calling you two hours ago, I thought she got through,” Steve says, slowly backing away from Laura and guiding his friend out the door and off the porch into the yard beyond.

Clint stops briefly on his way outside to kiss Laura passionately. “I want to bend you over the kitchen table,” he murmurs into her mouth.

She giggles and bites his lip. “I’ll point guns at people more often.”

“You sexy wench.”

She slaps his ass and tells him to get outside so he listens to her, because that’s what you do when a sexy woman wielding a gun tells you to do something.

He descends the stairs and joins Steve and the stranger on the front lawn, taking a moment to gather his still slightly sleep addled thoughts. “It’s 3am, my wife and my kids are scared, and I was having a lovely dream that I will never know the end of. Tell me why I shouldn’t let Laura shoot you.” Clint uses his best dad-voice and is gratified to see that both men look properly shame faced.

“I’m so sorry,” Steve says, wincing a little. “We need some place safe to stay for a while.”

“Introduce me to your friend,” Clint says, nodding at the wild haired man who stands in Steve’s shadow.

“This is my… uh, this is Bucky,” Steve says, his blush evident even in the darkness. Bucky steps forward enough to shake Clint’s hand awkwardly, then immediately falls behind Steve again.

Clint may be out of the loop on current developments but he was around for the beginning of the Winter Soldier shenanigans. “You brought the world’s deadliest assassin to my house?”

“He’s been fighting for the Avengers, Clint. He was brainwashed and tortured by Hydra for seventy years, he wasn’t responsible for--”

They are interrupted by a loud bang as the front door flies open and Lila comes pelting out screaming “Uncle Steve!” She launches herself off the porch and into his arms.

“Lila!” he yells happily, spinning her around as she giggles. “Are you still drawing? Why don’t you go grab me something and show me how good you are?” He sets her down and she races back inside past Laura who looks exasperated.

“She got away from me once I told her who it was,” she explains, frowning at Steve and closing the door again firmly.

Steve turns back to Clint, desperation clear in every line of his face. “I wouldn’t bring someone dangerous to your house, Clint. Bucky is a good man, the best man I’ve ever known. We just need one night to figure out what we’re going to do.”

Clint wants to help, but he has to know something first. “Tell me what I’m getting into if I help you. What am I risking? What is my family risking by letting you stay here?”

Steve opens and closes his mouth a few times, but it’s Bucky that finally says something. “There’s a warrant. Many, many warrants out for my arrest. The Avengers have been… harboring me, giving me a place to lie low and letting me help on missions. Thaddeus Ross is going to take down everyone who helped me in any capacity, from Tony Stark who gave me a home to the nurse who put band-aids on my boo-boos. If he finds out you helped me he’ll rip your life apart.”

Clint lets the silence stretch, watching Steve squirm just a little bit because Clint really is annoyed at being woken up like this, but his mind is already made up.

“Fuck Ross,” Clint says decisively, turning and marching up the steps. He opens the front door and turns back to Steve and Bucky. “Take the guest bedroom. Welcome to Casa Barton, chumps.”

~*~

Bucky and Steve are curled up together on the guest bed. Steve is asleep but Bucky can’t turn his brain off.

When Clint ushered them inside Bucky was certain the gun would make a reappearance. But whatever Clint whispered to his wife seemed to change her entire demeanor instantly. Laura became warm and welcoming, making them chamomile tea with honey to ‘help with the stress’, and giving them each a buttery shortbread. She smiled warmly as Lila crawled her way up onto Steve’s lap to show him a crayon rendition of her imaginary friend that she named “pizza dog.” No explanation for the title was forthcoming.

Cooper, the eldest child, watched Steve and Bucky with suspicion, but after a while he couldn’t stop himself from asking Bucky about the arm.

“Does it hurt?” he asked quietly, gazing at it with fearful interest.

“No, not anymore,” said Bucky, holding it out for Cooper to examine. Cooper prodded at it experimentally, growing bolder as Bucky explained how it worked, prying open panels to show the wiring underneath. Lila, sensing that her brother was receiving attention from the new and interesting stranger, crawled her way over onto Bucky to demand her share of attention.

“It’s pretty,” she declared, patting his arm seriously. Then she noticed the chipped nail varnish that was still clinging to Bucky’s nails. She squealed, jumping down and running upstairs, running back down moments later with a small bucket that held a rainbow of different nail varnishes.

“Lila, you need to ask permission,” Laura warned, frowning a little as Lila wiggled her way back up onto Bucky’s lap.

“What color?” Lila asked instead, helpfully pulling each bottle out and lining them up for Bucky to look at. He pointed at a shimmery blue and Lila dutifully held his hand and covered each nail with the color he had picked. “You can’t touch anything until it dries,” she said with gravity. Bucky nodded seriously and promised he wouldn’t.

Then Lila turned to Steve. “What color?” Steve couldn’t tell her no, so he picked silver and held his hands out for Lila.

Clint grinned at them the entire time, eyes sparkling with amusement and affection.

Eventually the kids became tired again and put themselves to bed, but only when they received assurances that Bucky and Steve wouldn’t be leaving without saying goodbye. Once they had gone a little of Laura’s edge returned and she leaned forward to look at Bucky with an intense expression. “I trust my husband’s judgement without question, but know this—if he’s wrong, if you’re a danger to my family, if you do anything to hurt my children, I will not hesitate to terminate you with extreme prejudice.”

“Understood,” said Bucky, awestruck by her gumption.

“Then welcome to Casa Barton, chumps,” Laura said, smiling as though she’d never pointed a gun at them. She high-fived Clint as she left to go back to bed.

“I'm married to that woman,” Clint said proudly, once she was out of ear shot.

Clint talked to them for a little bit, a mindless conversation about some absurd TV show, but eventually he declared he needed to return to bed. He set them up in their own room and closed the door as he left.

The sky outside is starting to turn pink and Bucky is far from sleep.

He’s mad at himself for staying and jeopardizing everyone, mad that Steve has been forced to flee, mad at the world and the circumstances of his life.

But his heart is also aching because his old dream of having a daughter has been stirred up again. A little girl, bold and silly like Lila, but _his_. He would teach her how to fight and shoot, Steve would teach her to paint and take her to dance lessons, and together they’d raise her to be strong and smart. He wants it desperately, but he’ll never… it will never happen.

Steve stirs a little, tightening his grip on Bucky, raising his lips to Bucky’s ear. “I love you,” he murmurs.

“How did you know I was awake?” Bucky asks, turning a little to kiss Steve’s forehead.

“I smelled something burning. Figured you were lying awake thinking again,” Steve says, snorting when Bucky slaps his rear in retaliation.

 “Do you ever…” Bucky starts, but can’t bring himself to finish.

Steve doesn’t let him get away with that though, so eventually Bucky asks the question. “Do you ever want kids?” He feels mortified.

Steve hums thoughtfully, considering his answer. “I never thought that I’d be a father, but I always thought you would be. You’d be a good dad, I think. I’d love to see you raise a child.”

Bucky wants to protest that he doesn’t think he would be a fit parent but Steve kisses him before he can even open his mouth. “Shut up and go to sleep, you idiot,” Steve says tenderly.

For some reason that works and Bucky is able to turn his brain off long enough to get some sleep, tangled up with Steve and content again despite everything.

As long as he has Steve he has everything he wants.

~*~

The first time Peter met Bucky had been shortly after Bucky’d decided to stay for good. Tony had thrown yet another party and Peter had finally accepted the invitation; Tony may or may not have threatened him—Peter knows that all of Tony’s threats are empty but it’s Tony’s way of saying “This is how important it is to me that you go along with what I’m asking you to do, so let’s both pretend I’m gonna follow through with this.”

So Peter accepted the freakin’ invitation and partied with the Avengers in full costume while everyone else celebrated in civilian garb (only Tony knows what he looks like out of uniform and that is one person too many). He also accepted the gentle ribbing with semi-good humor. Most of it came from Sam anyway and Sam is harmless.

“Everyone has a gimmick these days,” Sam said, pretending to be annoyed by Peter's costume.

“This coming from the guy in the bird costume,” said Peter, smirking.

“Hey, man, it’s a high tech—shut up you guys!” Sam yelled as everyone started snickering.

Peter likes people but he gets exhausted by them easily. A few hours into the evening and everyone else was drinking and laughing except him, so he took the opportunity to slip away for a moment, disappearing as subtly as an awkward teenage boy in a bright red spandex suit can. There was a garden outside and Peter gravitated towards it, his phenomenal vision making everything clear as through the sun were shining, instead of the dim half-moon which silvered everything with its cold light.

“You gettin’ tired of the noise too?” said a voice from the shadows behind him. Peter spun around to see Bucky smoking, hunched up in a corner, eyes looking strangely dull.

“Uh, yeah. Crowds. Not really good with ‘em after a while.” Peter fidgeted, not sure if a conversation was expected. Bucky remained silent and pulled out another cigarette, offering it to Peter who accepted it with trepidation. “I don’t know how to smoke?”

“Eh, just hold it in your mouth and pretend. Gives you something to do. An excuse to get away,” Bucky grunted, holding out a lighter to Peter.

Peter lifted up the bottom of his mask and dutifully lit the cigarette, leaning up against the wall as casually as possible, trying to imitate the coolness that Bucky gave off effortlessly. He managed not to choke on the smoke, but it’s hard to look cool in spandex.

“Why a spider?” asked Bucky after a few minutes of strangely not-awkward silence.

“Oh, uh, I can climb walls and stuff. I can see really well, hear really well, sense stuff before it happens. I made these, uh, web shooters. It helps me swing around and stuff,” Peter said. Some ash fell from the end of his cigarette and he quickly tried to brush it off the very, very expensive spidey suit before it damaged anything.

“Spiders don’t have good eyesight though,” Bucky said, smirking. “I watched a documentary about them.”

“I know, I know,” Peter groaned. Tony had confronted him with the same information when they first met. “But this happened when… when I was bit by one. A radioactive one. I thought it made sense.”

Bucky frowned a little, pulling another cigarette from his pack. “Huh, didn’t know radiation could do that. I thought it just burned people really bad and gave them weird cancer.”

“Come on, ease off my back story, bro. I’m not asking you why they call you the Winter Soldier,” Peter said, feeling annoyed.

“You wanna know why they call me the Winter Soldier, kid?” Bucky asked, an edge of menace in his voice.

“No, I said I’m _not_ asking you.” Peter felt a slight tingle of anticipation, not quite spidey sense, but precognition kicking in all the same.

“I’ll tell you why they call me the Winter Soldier,” Bucky said insistently, flicking his cigarette away into the darkness aggressively.

“Come on, man,” Peter said, holding his hands up in surrender.

Bucky stalked towards him, expression fierce. “They call me the Winter Soldier--”

“Dude, I’m sorry!”

“--’cause I’m one _cool_  motherfucker,” Bucky finished. He held his fierce expression for one second longer before it cracked. He threw his head back to laugh and Peter snorted, giggling despite himself.

“You’re a dork,” Peter said in happy revelation.

“I’ve killed more people than you’ve ever met,” Bucky said, face going perfectly blank again in an instant, but his eyes were no longer dull. They sparkled with morbid amusement.

“You also have a horrible sense of humor,” Peter added.

Bucky shrugged, pulling yet another cigarette out of his pocket. “It’s like a super power.”

Their friendship is strange but it's good. They don’t tend to talk to each other much, instead they turn to each other when the rest of the group exhausts them, taking refuge in companionable silence long enough to recharge. When Peter is filled with rage because of the bullies at school, or some injustice he witnessed, or just… just because rage sits under his skin like a second skeleton, he’ll Skype call Bucky (without video of course) just to have him on the line, and they’ll be quiet together as he does his homework and Bucky does whatever he does. Bucky understands Peter's rage and doesn’t tell him to not be angry or try to make him feel better. Bucky doesn’t tell him anything at all, except sometimes he’ll share weird animal facts.

“Female hyenas have a pseudo-penis that they urinate, fuck, and give birth through,” Bucky might say with no lead up, an hour into a silent Skype call.

“Dude,” Peter will say, losing focus on his English homework long enough to google that and make sure Bucky isn’t fucking with him.

Or Bucky might say “Huh, they froze a scorpion overnight and when it thawed it was still alive. And they can live on only one insect a year. That’s pretty weird.”

“Whoa,” Peter will say, and lose a half hour watching videos about scorpions that Bucky links him to.

Peter forgets sometimes that the rest of the world doesn’t see the Bucky he sees. His Bucky is a quiet man, full of bad jokes and unexpected sweetness. For example, Bucky thinks that _every_ animal is the cutest animal he’s ever seen—seriously, the man links him to pictures of ball pythons and insists they have puppy snouts.

“Bucky, it’s a snake,” Peter will groan, completely grossed out.

“It’s a cute snake. Look, it makes the little puppy face like this--”

Bucky types a little “:3” into the chat.

“It… it’s a snake. It’s incapable of being cute.”

“Nothing is incapable of being cute if you try hard enough,” Bucky insists. “Haha, it looks like a sock puppet when it’s eating!”

The snakes aren’t cute, but Bucky is very cute when he talks about the snakes, so Peter doesn’t mind.

Peter is less wigged out by spiders but that is still where he finds himself drawing the line. “Tarantulas do not have cute little ‘peets’ and ‘fuzzy butts’. You are _psychotic_.”

This is the Bucky that he wishes the world could see, a gentle man who was broken once but who has made something beautiful out of the pieces that are left, filling in the cracks with every good thing he can find, like a ‘ _kintsugi_ ’ soul.

Peter wants to throttle Wade, which is awful because he really liked the man despite everything. But Wade has taken away Bucky’s home, his security, his stability. If that wasn’t bad enough he’s brought the world to the Avenger’s door step and jeopardized the team, the strange family made of surrogate fathers, mothers, sisters, and brothers. And Vision, who is not familial, but who is still nice and doesn’t deserve this bullshit.

Peter sets out the night after the story breaks, after Bucky and Steve have fled together, with the intention of beating the shit out of Wade.

Deadpool has been dogging his steps for weeks, showing up to help him take down bad guys (with surprisingly minimal collateral damage—the worst thing so far has been a busted fire hydrant) despite Peter’s protests. Most nights end with Peter and Wade sat on top of a building, enjoying a hot dog (or five in Peter’s case, twenty in Wade’s). Peter will try to convince Wade to back off Bucky and Wade will needle Peter about his friendship with the _Winter Soldier_.

“He’s an assassin,” Wade points out.

Peter always corrects him with a quick “Ex-assassin.”

“Right, sure.” Wade is dismissive which infuriates Peter to no end. It’s hypocritical for Wade to expect a chance to be a good guy while simultaneously denying Bucky the same chance.

“Natasha was an assassin but you aren’t hunting _her_ down.”

Wade belches loudly, the sound ringing out into the night and echoing strangely off the buildings. “Not being paid to currently, but I’d happily hit that if someone offered up cash. Incidentally, do you think she ever gets tired of being brought up whenever someone wants a redemption arc for a Problematic White Boy™?”

Wade frequently confuses Peter with random statements like this, which always leaves Peter begging the question “What?”

“Nah, forget it. Even I know that was way too Meta.”

Peter slaps the hot dog out of Wade’s mouth and they devolve into a slap fight that lasts until Peter feels too embarrassed to continue. “You’re an ass,” he barks before swinging off into the night.

“You _have_ a nice ass!” Wade shouts after him, the tone retaliatory but the content weirdly complimentary. This is another thing that Wade does which Peter can’t help but find amusing.

Right now everything about Wade just pisses Peter off.

It’s like Wade senses Peter’s violent intentions because he’s made himself seriously scarce. Peter is distracted during his patrol, keeping a keen eye out for Wade, which is why someone actually manages to hit him with a bullet for once. It doesn’t go in, the fibers of the suit prevent it from doing more than punching the air out of his lungs. He falls a not-inconsiderable distance to the ground, wheezing harshly from the impact. He doesn’t see what happens, white sparks of pain cloud his gaze, but he hears a commotion from where the shot came from, a startled scream of pain that is cut off abruptly followed by another report of gunfire.

His vision clears just in time to see Wade running towards him desperately. “Fuck, fuck, are you okay?”

“Dead…” Peter groans.

“No, please no,” Wade groans, cradling Peter to his chest. “You can’t die…”

“Dead…” Peter wheezes again.

“Just… You’re going to be fine, please. _Please_ , kid.”

Peter grabs Wade by the neck and growls. “You… are so… _fucking dead.”_

Unfortunately the pain from the fall and the gunshot make it difficult for Peter to make good on his promise to beat the shit out of Wade, but he does what he can, wrapping both hands firmly around the other man’s throat.

“I love… breath play…” Wade chokes out, which makes Peter let go immediately.

“I hate you _, I hate you_ ,” Peter spits.

“I know,” Wade whispers, head tilted downwards, still holding Peter.

Peter closes his eyes and turns away, pushing out of Wade’s embrace. “How could you?”

“I never lied to you, kid. I never pretended your friend wasn't my target. You’re the one that decided to hang out with me anyway.”

It’s true. Wade isn’t saying it to make Peter feel bad, he’s saying it because it’s true and that’s _worse._

“Fuck,” says Peter miserably. “I wanted to be your friend.”

“I want to be your friend too,” Wade says sadly.

“The next time I see you I’m handing you to the police,” Peter warns. “I won’t let you hurt Bucky. Get out of my city, Wade.”

He feels numb as he watches Wade disappear into the night. What did he think would happen? Why was he so stupid? Why is he such a bad friend?

Once Wade is gone Peter tries to find the gunman. He’s got the horrible feeling that Wade killed the shooter, but instead he finds the man tied up on a small balcony, unconscious but relatively uninjured.

“Fuck,” groans Peter.

Why does everything have to be so fucking complicated?


	7. Drain Wig

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of past drug use.
> 
> Slightly sexier sex times than I typically write.

Maria prides herself on her ability to move and think with detached precision. She becomes a weapon, a machine made of cold metal and gears that shift in response to pressure on her trigger. She loses composure rarely, but two occasions stand out to her.

After Clint had nearly destroyed the helicarrier with one of his trick arrows while rescuing Loki, Maria allowed herself a moment to shake apart under the cold water of the shower. That moment of weakness was humiliating, like she’d been caught picking her nose. She’d been terrified for the world, terrified for Clint, terrified for herself, but afterwards all she could feel was self-recrimination for being weak.

Then she nearly lost the steel in her spine after Nick was shot by the Winter Soldier—an instant of fear when she thought their agent hadn’t been able to slip him the toxin, that Nick’s code on the table was genuine. Her eyes had widened and she’d clenched her fist in full view of Steve and Natasha. Even though neither of them were paying attention to her she’d felt exposed. Later she wondered if the lapse had been entirely involuntary, or if she’d instinctively known she could trust the two of them enough to become emotional.

These moments pale in comparison to what Maria feels as Pepper dresses for battle.

Pepper wears a white silk shirt under a pale blue wool suit. The color compliments her red tresses and pale skin. Her makeup is light, just enough to emphasize her eyes and lips. The shoes are a light shade of pink that almost match Pepper’s skin, the heels stiletto and deadly looking, the only clue that indicates how dangerous Pepper really is.

And Pepper really is dangerous. Deadly, even. Maria has met only a few people who actually intimidate her, Nick Fury and Phil Coulson among them, but Pepper is in another league. One time, during an argument, Pepper had raised an eyebrow and Maria actually stammered, forgetting the point she was trying to make as that arched brow threatened her in ways a malevolent alien god could only dream of.

Today Pepper is going to court to testify in the defense of the long list of individuals who stand accused of protecting Bucky Barnes. She’s had nearly a year’s head start to prepare this case and Maria is certain that Pepper will be successful. In all honesty, the thought that Pepper could fail has never even crossed Maria’s mind. That’s not why Maria is shuddering internally, fighting to keep composure.

No, Maria is struggling because she has realized that for the first time she has complete faith in someone. It’s a terrifying feeling to realize just how much of herself she has placed in Pepper’s well-manicured hand, and how little effort it took to put it there. Something must show on her face because Pepper is suddenly leaning into her space, stroking her hair gently.

“What’s wrong?” Pepper asks, kissing Maria’s cheek gently.

It’s hard to be direct, the thought of telling Pepper _I love you so much it terrifies me_ is frankly mortifying, so instead Maria says “I almost feel bad for them. They have no idea how hard you’re going to kick their asses—it’s almost unsportsmanlike.”

If Pepper senses the diversion she is graceful enough to ignore it.

Time marches forward and Maria finds herself driving Pepper to the courthouse and walking her inside. They don’t kiss, neither of them are comfortable with public displays, but they smile at each other and share the same thoughts briefly.

Maria is not allowed at the deposition, so she strolls to a nearby coffee shop to buy a drink and a muffin, and waits. The phone rings with an unknown number as she prepares to take her first bite and she sighs with annoyance. Because she has worked with him for a long time she is not entirely surprised when Nick’s voice says “Your woman is terrifying.”

_Nick hasn’t used a name, so the line isn’t secure. This is a courtesy call. The wrong people have noticed Pepper._

“All women are terrifying,” Maria says blandly. _The warning is understood._

“You still bird watching?” Nick asks.

This could mean Wilson or Clint, so Maria says “Seen falcons mostly, haven’t seen any hawks in a while.”

“I like hawks better, myself. I always wanted to train one to carry messages for me. More secure than texting. Cooler, too,” he says, chuckling a little. “Cooler” isn’t a word that Nick would use, so its use is deliberate. _Is the Winter Soldier with Clint?_

Maria thinks quickly. She trusts Nick to do what he thinks is right, but she doesn’t know if they’re on the same side of this thing. She respects Bucky and can’t countenance the thought of him facing execution, but Nick has no real reason to feel warm and fuzzy towards the man who tried to assassinate him twice.

In the end she can’t bring herself to lie to Nick. They promised they would never lie to each other.

“Yeah, hawks are pretty cool.” _Yes, Bucky is at Clint’s._ “Are you bird watching?” _What are you planning, Nick?_

Nick hums thoughtfully. “I thought about it, but bird watching sounds boring. Hunting, though. Hunting might be interesting.”

“Don’t go duck hunting,” Maria says quickly. “It isn’t the season for it.” _Don’t hurt Bucky._

“Don’t worry, I like ducks too much to hurt ‘em. Got a little rubber one that sits in my tub and keeps me company.” _I’m not going to hurt Bucky. I want to recruit him._

Maria relaxes a little. “I really didn’t want to imagine you in a bathtub.” _I have a deep affection for you that I will disguise with derogatory banter._

“Don’t pretend you haven’t already,” Nick says. _I know._

He hangs up and Maria resumes eating her muffin, slightly on edge.

Pepper has pissed off the wrong people and it’s only a matter of time before they retaliate. It’s unlikely that they could actually harm Pepper, since she is as durable as Steve now, but… it could still be very unpleasant. They might hurt Pepper through her loved ones, or through business interests, or by attacking her public image ( _like what’s happening right now_ , she thinks).

Maria starts planning and spends the rest of the day running through the likely and unlikely scenarios, until she’s almost certain she has discovered every angle they can be attacked from. It does little to make her feel better—the only thing that will bring her peace is having Pepper back in sight.

In the end it feels like forever, but within five hours she has Pepper back within touching distance. Maria amuses herself on the drive home by trying to guess how it went. Pepper has an amazing poker face and indulges Maria’s fancy, keeping silent in order to give her the chance to figure something out with as few clues as possible.

“Well?” Pepper asks as they enter their apartment. “What do you reckon?”

Maria gives Pepper a look, and she spins for inspection. “What can you surmise, Sherlock?”

“It’s all in the shoes, my dear Watson,” Maria says, smirking a little.

“Explain, Holmes. You know I loathe it when you are mysterious.” Pepper’s eyes are glittering with ill-concealed mirth and Maria takes a moment to kiss her before continuing.

“Your shoes are your armor. If you had felt tense or in danger you would have kept them on for the full five hours. When you wear your shoes for that long you develop minor swelling, the slightest trace of a limp, and extreme irritability. And yet here you stand, no swelling that I can see, no limp, and in perfectly high spirits. From this I surmise that you removed your shoes at every opportunity while you were seated behind the desk. You felt safe, confident. It went well.”

Pepper applauds her and bestows kisses and affectionate groping. “Well reasoned, my genius!”

“Come, Watson. You’ve had a long day. I deduce you would like a long soak in the bath with hideous amounts of alcohol.” Maria holds a hand out for Pepper, who takes it, giggling and blushing.

“You know me so well, Holmes.”

Maria grins, slow and predatory. “But first I’m going to ravish you, Watson.”

Sometime later, after ravishing, Maria and Pepper recline in the tub together with a bottle of wine. Pepper sits between Maria’s legs and leans back until her head is pillowed between Maria’s breasts. Pepper closes her eyes and Maria strokes her hair, and finally asks for more details about the deposition.

“We’ve made a strong case that Bucky was not at fault for any actions taken while brainwashed. Now all that’s left is to address the harboring charges, which will be child’s play. No, I’m concerned about public opinion right now. Winning public support will be the real difficulty.”

Maria nods thoughtfully. “I hadn’t thought about any of that, really, but you’re right. We need the public on our side.”

Pepper sighs. “I know what I need to do and I’m going to do it, but… Steve and Bucky are going to hate me.”

Maria tenses. “Pepper, you can’t out them.”

Pepper spins around to face Maria, horror struck. “I would never do that to them! Oh my god, Hill, how could you even… Oh my god.”

Maria gathers Pepper back into her arms and soothes her, feeling immense relief. “Sorry, sorry. I jumped to conclusions.”

“Some fucking Sherlock!” Pepper gripes, but without real malice. “No, I’m not outing anybody. I’m not a monster. Well… not that kind of monster. I’m… I don’t want to talk about it. If I talk to you about what I’m going to do you’ll talk me out of it and we’ll have no chance.”

“Is it illegal?” Maria asks.

“I’m not really sure,” Pepper says shrugging. “I don’t care if it is.”

“You’ll be the death of me, Potts.”

“Shut up and kiss me, you leggy bitch,” Pepper murmurs, turning and fitting her mouth to Maria’s.

It’s impossible to be a machine when Pepper licks into her mouth like this, impossible to be a machine when slender fingers twist their way inside her and make her come with sobbing pleasure.

 _If anyone hurts this woman I will burn the world down_ , Maria decides.

It’s scary because she can do it. Loki’s attack on New York will look like the charming mischief of a cheeky scamp compared to what Maria is prepared to unleash on the world, should she be forced to seek vengeance.

However, this train of thought is quickly derailed by Pepper, whose good mood is making her quite amorous. Maria allows herself to be thoroughly distracted at least five more times before they are too tired and fall asleep tangled up together on the messy bed.

~*~

When it rains it pours, which means that the anniversary of Riley’s death coincides with everything going to shit. Because Sam is named as a defendant in an ongoing case he can’t travel to Tennessee to be with Riley’s mom—however, she decides to come join Sam instead, which he is immeasurably grateful for. It’s hard enough grieving Riley without having to grieve alone.

“Momma!” he shouts as she enters the terminal. He runs to greet her, scooping her up in his arms and twirling her. She laughs delightedly and presses a kiss to his cheek.

Riley’s mom is a short, chubby Irish woman in her late 60s, with shockingly red hair. She is named Violet, which Sam finds amusing for some reason.

“What’s the craic, love?” she asks once he has deposited her back on the ground.

Sam groans a little instead of answering and she pats his arm sympathetically. “Never mind, never mind. Quick, get me out of here before I lose my mind and start screaming at these fuckers. What a great lot of goons I’ve travelled with today.”

After she’s settled in the car and he pulls out of the garage she turns to him with a gleam in her eye. “So what’s Bucky Barnes like?”

“Oh lord, I should’ve known you’d start--”

“Shut up and give me the good gossip. You’ve been holding out, you absolute prune,” she says, pinching his arm.

“He’s… okay,” Sam says cautiously. He turns to look at Vi and sees that she’s unimpressed. “God, alright. He’s an absolute dick. He spends his off time plotting mischief, stealing food, and picking fights for no reason. You’d love him.”

“I’m not surprised. I’m related to him, after all,” Vi confides with no small amount of pride. “He was my grandmother’s cousin.”

“Huh, guess your side got all the good looks. He’s ugly as a pug,” Sam says, winking at her. She snorts but looks pleased anyway.

“Guess he’s flown the coop by now. A shame, I’d wanted to shake his hand.”

“Well, if our Pepper Potts can work her magic, he might be back sooner than you think. She seems confident, and she’s not usually wrong about these things,” Sam says.

He hopes to god she really does fix everything because he misses Bucky. He didn’t think he would, but now he realizes he’s grown to adore the man as much as he adores Steve, Nat, and Riley. There’s something about a person who can bust your balls and have your back at the same time that inspires his undying loyalty.

“How are you, Vi?” he asks, carefully keeping his eyes on the road to give her some privacy if she needs it. As expected, the question makes her sigh shakily, but this is important for them. It’s their routine. They’re going to spend today and tomorrow crying together, and then on the anniversary they’re going to get drunk and do something stupid to honor their lost boy. Last year they streaked through the graveyard. This year… well, they’ll have to see what they can get up to.

“It hurts the same but I guess I’m learning to breathe through it a little. That comes with it’s own form of grief, though, I suppose,” she says quietly.

“I know what you mean,” he says, because he does. You grieve so much for so long, but then one day you realize you’re grieving a little less than you used to and that hurts too because the pain is a connection to what you lost. You lose that, you’re less connected somehow.

“I’m so glad I have you,” she says, and she reaches over to pat his arm again. He fights to keep tears back because he has to drive, but it’s hard.

Survivor’s guilt and PTSD are a hell of a combination, and Sam can admit that for a few years after Riley died he was broken by it. But if there is anything left of who he was before, it’s because of Violet. She’d visited him in the mental hospital when they were trying to make sure they didn’t need to put him under involuntary hold. He thought maybe she’d be angry at him, demand to know why Riley was dead but he was still breathing.

Violet visited him every day for a month until he was discharged and then she dragged him back to Tennessee for a year while he completed his counselling certificate online. His own family was very much a part of recovery, but… Vi was his connection to Riley, and he was her connection to Riley, and they needed each other.

They get back to the compound without crashing and he helps her bring her stuff in, leaving her to settle into the guest room where she will be staying for an indeterminate amount of time. Sam only ever stays with her for three days because he works, but Vi is retired. She might stay longer. He hopes she does.

While she’s settling he wanders around, trying to find Natasha. He’s feeling slightly weepy and he needs her sarcasm and cynicism. She’s reading in her room and he wanders in without knocking, dropping down face first onto the bed, near her feet. She extends her legs and rests her feet on his butt, and they stay like that for a few minutes.

Eventually Natasha marks her place and puts the book down. She’s reading _Art of War_ because she’s a cliché. “How did it go?”

“Good, I guess. Got her back safe. No one stopped me or recognized me.”

“And how are you feeling?” Nat asks calmly.

“A little raw. We haven’t even… we haven’t even talked about him yet, really, and I’m already there.”

“Was Riley your lover?”

He tenses.

It’s a weird question because Sam is never sure how to answer it. Technically no, Riley wasn’t his lover. They never had sexual contact of any kind.

Not the same as asking Sam if he wanted Riley, though. If someone asked, Sam might say “Adrenaline makes you want to do strange things.”

That’s not the truth either, though.

A crush mixed with genuine respect and admiration, aged with grief, and Sam still feels like he lost the love of his life.  He’s not gay but he’s not completely straight.

He’s waited too long to answer, which probably answers the question for Natasha better than he ever could.

“Interesting,” she murmurs. She begins to knead his ass with her heels, like a cat pressing it’s paws gently into your thigh as it settles for a nap.

It tickles so he rolls away and slaps at her feet. “You’re a menace.”

“I’d pegged you for a 0 on the Kinsey scale,” Natasha murmurs, gazing at him with interest.

“In terms of experience I’m a 0 on the Kinsey scale, but I’m closer to a 2 in terms of, uh… desires,” he admits with a little reluctance. He tries to gauge her reaction, but he’s never been good at reading her. “That doesn’t… Uh… does that put you off?”

This is the closest he’s come to admitting out loud that they are going somewhere with this, that maybe it’s not just flirting. Sam is a little breathless, terrified that Nat will run from him now that he’s admitted to being bisexual.

“If your bird costume didn’t put me off, your bro-ner for Riley isn’t going to.”

“Okay, for the last time, it isn’t a bird costume!” Sam roars, digging the heels of his palms against his eyes in agitation. “You fuckers have _no respect_.”

Natasha dissolves into giggles and Sam is dragged along in her wake, chuckling with her until they’re both breathless and teary eyed.

“I want you,” Sam says once they’ve come to a natural stop, because what’s one more confession?

Natasha bolts upright, expression intense. “Then have me.”

Sam considers her silently and shakes his head. “Nah, I don’t think so.”

Natasha screams in frustration and throws a pillow at his head. “You absolute bastard! I’ve been waiting months, and you finally, finally say something and you won’t do anything?”

Sam grins and sits up, throwing the pillow back at Natasha. “I’m not going to have you. I’m going to seduce you.”

“I’m seduced!” she protests incredulously.

“Nah, you don’t know seduction, you have no idea.”

Natasha snorts derisively. “I seduce people all the time. I know seduction.”

“That’s what I mean. You seduce people all the time, but no one ever seduces you. You aren’t gonna know what to do with yourself when I’m done with you,” Sam says, watching as Natasha turns red. Part of that is probably anger, but Sam knows the rest of it is something else entirely.

“I’m going to kill you,” she whispers.

“And I’m going to kiss you now, if that’s alright,” he says as he leans forward slightly. Natasha rushes forward but he grabs her face at the last moment, holding it gently between his palms. He presses gently, entertaining himself by smooshing her face into a funny expression. Her glare is threatening, but it only spurs him on. He kisses the very end of her nose, then he pulls back carefully and releases her. “I’d like to take you out next Wednesday. Would you be available?”

“If we aren’t in prison next week, then yes, I will go out with you. If we’re in prison, I’ll break us out, and the answer will still be yes,” Natasha says firmly, glaring at him. “But I’m warning you Wilson, you tease me for too long and I won’t be responsible for my actions.”

He leans forward and whispers in her ear “I’m gonna tease you exactly long enough, Natasha.”

~*~

Tony knows he isn’t allowed to help with the court case so he doesn’t even offer, just quietly goes to his lab and starts working on stuff he’s been neglecting while he waits for a call to testify.

He invents and then quickly un-invents grape ice cream, he spends a few hours messing around with the model warp drive he’s been trying to make since he first saw Star Trek, he finds and watches Iron Man porn, and then spends another few hours finding all the porn versions of the other Avengers because it’s hilarious, then he passes out for a few hours. When he wakes up again it’s night time and his Peter-alarm is going off.

It’s the alarm that goes off whenever Peter is doing something stupid in the suit. The impact sensor indicates that a bullet has collided with Peter’s left side and a few moments later it registers an impact from a fall of roughly 50 feet. Tony bites his lip so hard it bleeds, but he resists the urge to invade Peter’s comms because he wants to give Peter a chance to do the right thing and call for backup.

Still, just because Tony isn’t saying anything doesn’t mean he isn’t listening, which is a good thing because Deadpool shows up. Tony listens as Deadpool has (or fakes) a mini-panic attack over whatever condition he finds Peter in (the medical personnel are already on the way to their approximate location).

He hears Peter confess that he wishes he could be friends with Deadpool. Then he hears Peter groan out a name.

“Wade.”

 _First name basis_ , Tony thinks. Peter knows who Deadpool is _. For fucks sake, Peter…_

The tracker bots, which Tony attached to the spider suit during the last routine maintenance, have affixed themselves to Deadpool, which means Peter and Deadpool (Wade?) were in physical contact long enough for transference. Lengthy physical contact outside of a combat situation was not something Tony had predicted. The bots were supposed to transfer during a fight, not… whatever just happened.

There is going to be a conversation in the future that Peter isn’t going to like very much.

For now Tony pushes that thought aside and focuses on watching the erratic path that Deadpool is weaving through the city, as the assassin crosses over rooftops and through sewers. Tony is trying to make sense of the trajectory, trying to predict where Deadpool might settle. If they can discover a base of some sort then they can bring the fight to him and end this shit once and for all. Tony spends two hours watching Deadpool loop his way around, but an hour into the vigil Tony suspects he sees a pattern.

Sure enough, once Tony superimposes a line over the dot’s path it resembles a cock and balls. Then the tracers blink out of existence, the signal dying abruptly where they began.

Deadpool knew. He knew he was being tracked and he spent two hours navigating the city’s topography just to say “fuck you” with a massive Queen’s sized dick.

“I gotta respect that,” murmurs Tony, who isn’t ashamed to admit he admires Deadpool for going the extra mile to fuck with him.

So, that plan came to nothing. Tony would go back to the drawing board but his mind is blank.

Peter is on first name basis with the assassin that nearly killed Bucky.

Peter was shot two hours ago and hasn’t contacted Tony, or anyone.

_Peter is going to get himself killed and it’s going to be Tony’s fault._

Tony allowed himself to imagine being a father one time and it had been so traumatic that he’d got drunk enough to buy a Thomas Kinkade. Tony readily admits to being a philistine, but even he knew that was a step too far.

He’d approached the concept once more after taking (forcing) Peter under his wing. The boy really could be his son—smart, snarky, stubborn, s-orphaned, s-bullied, s-misunderstood, and a few other s-words. It was a pleasing thought, a self-satisfied one. But now…

If he doesn’t do anything Peter is going to die. If he steps in Peter will hate him.

Tony doesn’t want Peter to hate him. Tony doesn’t want Peter to die.

 _I… I’m going to have to put Peter’s needs above my own,_ Tony realizes. _I’m going to have to let him hate me._

_I have to take the suit away._

The first time Tony got high was not after his parents died, loathe as he is to admit it. Drugs had entered the equation a few years before then, when he was trying to find a way to survive boarding school. It wasn’t a problem when he was at boarding school, where no one paid attention to him except to yell at him for standing out. But when he was fifteen he made the mistake of doing a line of coke on Christmas Eve in order to get through the tedious family dinner.

The fight had been magnificent, at first, when Tony was still feeling good enough to enjoy the sound of his father screaming and breaking crockery, and his mother wailing. Then the high had worn off, Tony was deposited firmly back into his own body, and he found himself standing in the middle of the kitchen with both his parents crying and the Christmas dinner completely ruined.

His father had taken away the car and his allowance, and it had been humiliating, infuriating, galling—a lot of –ings had described how Tony felt about all of that.

The worst thing though… the worst thing is that they never had another Christmas dinner. When he was sixteen his mother and father decided to go to California without him.

“You don’t like being around us anyway,” his mother explained. “That’s what the whole mess last year was about wasn’t it? We don’t want you to have to… to get high, just to talk us, Tony. We don’t want to torture you.”

“Mom, come on--”

“Tony, it’s okay. Maybe someday you’ll want to spend time with us. Maybe when you’re an adult you’ll like us again. But right now you can’t stand us—I can see it on your face every time you come home. You think I don’t see it, but I do.”

It was true, god was it true, but that didn’t mean he didn’t want…

It didn’t mean they had to…

Then the next year they died and the problem had been solved permanently, Tony supposed.

_If I had just tried harder to be nice they wouldn’t have stopped having Christmas at the house, and they’d still be alive._

He takes a long moment to steady himself without the use of any substance, which is very difficult, like trying to row a boat to shore without an oar while a waterfall looms ever closer. He does it though, he staves off the panic attack. He gets to shore and lies there gasping and wrecked, but alive.

When his voice is steady enough he calls Peter and leaves a voicemail.

“I need you to bring the suit to the Tower tomorrow, after you’re out of school. There’s something wrong,” he says.

It isn’t a lie. Something is very, very wrong, and Tony is going to fix it even if Peter hates him after.


	8. Big Vision Glasses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: homophobia, explicit depiction of torture (unrelated)

Steve only intended to stay for one night, but there he is sleeping next to Bucky in the guest bed for the third night in a row. And for the third morning in a row they are woken up Lila as she runs into their room to throw herself on the bed, unerringly hitting both of their crotches at the same time.

“Need to start wearing a cup to bed,” groans Bucky, turning on his side and covering his head with a pillow as Lila attacks Steve.

“Steve! I made another picture!” she yells in Steve’s face, her hair still messy from sleep and her breath sour. Steve giggles happily and tickles Lila, temporarily distracting her from the picture that she’s slapping into his face.

“Tickle fight!” Steve yells and Lila screams in delight and kicks Bucky in the back as she flails.

Bucky grunts in pain. “First the crotch, now the kidneys! Was she trained by the Russians?”

“Get Bucky, Lila, he’s ticklish on his feet!” Steve yells, and Bucky yelps as Lila dutifully attacks his feet.

He’s only saved when Laura comes in, scoops Lila up with one arm, and leaves again with a practiced ease. “Breakfast in ten, boys,” she says before closing the door.

“Maa-aaa-ahm,” Lila protests, tucked up neatly under Laura’s arm like a sack of thwarted potatoes.

Once Laura and Lila descend the stairs Bucky quickly turns and pins Steve to the bed. “You are a low down, no good, rotten, filthy--”

Steve stops him with a kiss, giggling as Bucky groans and twitches his hips a little. “What were you saying?”

“Siccing your little assassin on me first thing in the morning. I’m going to get you back for this, Stevie,” Bucky says, pulling up and away from Steve.

“Aw, come on, we promised no more threats before pancakes,” Steve pleads.

Bucky makes up for the threats thoroughly, until Steve is dizzy and Laura is calling them again from downstairs. 

“Come on, pancake time,” Steve says cheerfully, pulling a reluctant Bucky out of bed and leading the way down the hall and stairs to the kitchen where Lila is already covered in syrup.

 “Uncle Steve!” she cries with a mouthful of pancakes.

“Lila,” Laura cautions, signing that Lila needs to close her mouth.

“Bucky!” cries Clint with a mouthful of pancakes. Laura punches him in the arm with a pointed look of incredulity. Clint looks unconcerned, but his eyes glitter with mischief. He turns back to Bucky and Steve. “My hearing aid got broken last night, after _someone_ decided it looked better with a coat of bright purple paint.”

“It was Clint who decided that, not Lila, before anyone gets the wrong idea,” Laura says, rolling her eyes and signing for Clint’s benefit.

“So I’m going into town to get a replacement,” Clint continues doggedly. “I was hoping Steve would come with me, since he signs.”

Laura turns back to Steve, looking a little impressed. “You can sign?”

“Yes ma’am. Used to be basically deaf myself,” Steve says brightly. “Sign language moved on a bit since my day, but I relearned everything so I could talk to some of the kids that go to my art camp.”

“How convenient,” Laura says happily. There’s something about the way she says it that bothers Steve, but before he can explore his concern they are wrangled into making more pancakes for everyone.

“Earn your keep, boys!” yells Clint as they are tied into frilly aprons and handed spatulas. Neither of them mind, both of them grateful for the opportunity to feel useful after three days of doing nothing, waiting for word from the team.

When pancakes are eaten, and everyone wants to go back to sleep to recover from the sugar crash, Steve is handed a disguise that Laura has gathered for him—leather pants and a tight t-shirt, and a pair of thick rimmed glasses.

“Isn’t this going to make me stand out?” he asks weakly. The leather pants are too much, show too much, and make Bucky grin too much.

“You don’t look like Captain America, though,” Bucky points out, licking his lips a little.

Laura runs her hands through Steve’s hair in a practiced gesture and suddenly it’s two shades darker, and styled. “You’re a witch,” Steve says, looking at a stranger in the mirror.

“Let’s just say my kids always have the best Halloween costumes,” she says, winking at Steve and slapping his ass in a chummy way before walking away to yell at Clint for something he’s doing loudly in the kitchen.

Bucky walks up behind Steve and kisses his neck gently. “We’re keeping the pants.”

“No way,” Steve says, but without real conviction, because Bucky really likes the pants and Steve likes giving him things that make him happy.

They look at each other in the mirror and Bucky blushes faintly. “About earlier, what I said… just forget it, okay?”

“Mm, no way,” says Steve, frowning a little. “We’re going to finish that conversation, but not right now.”

“Really, Steve, it’s not a big de--”

“Don’t even try, you muffin,” Steve says, turning around to pinch Bucky’s side. “Later, okay?”

Bucky nods, smiling a little, and Steve kisses him until it’s time to go into town with Clint. It takes a few minutes.

Clint drives, but insists on carrying on a conversation, which means he has to keep turning to watch Steve’s hands. This means lots of swerving (Clint) and cursing (Steve). When they get closer to town Steve signs firmly to Clint that the conversation is over until the car is parked.

It's good to spend time with Clint. He's always reliable on the field, but his relaxed attitude and silly sense of humor are what Steve really appreciates. Tony is capable of sending Steve through the roof, but Clint is able to bring him right back down again.

That’s the secret that no one outside the Avengers realizes—Coulson’s death brought them together, but Clint _kept_ them together. He doesn’t have obvious superpowers like Thor or Bruce, he’s not clever like Tony or Steve, he’s not adaptable like Natasha, but he knows all of them. He knows exactly what to say to get everyone moving, to get them going in the right direction, to calm them down. Steve used to think he was the leader, but then the accords happened and everything went to shit. If Clint had been there, though…

They pick up the new hearing aid and Clint turns it on, sighing in relief. “That’s so much better.”

“You’re an idiot, Clint,” Steve says fondly.

“Turning it back off now,” Clint says, pretending to rip the aid out.

“Let’s get ice cream before we go back,” Steve says, wanting just a little more time alone with Clint. They don't talk about anything important, and most of the time they don't talk at all. It's wonderful.

But ice cream only takes so long to eat, and before he’s ready they’re driving back to the farm. Conversation is easier now that Clint doesn’t have to look over. He still does it though, just to mess with Steve, who is caught between exasperation and amusement.

Laura is in the kitchen making cookies with the kids.

“Where’s Buck?” Steve asks, peering at Lila’s sheet of cookies admiringly as she babbles to him about what each cookie _means._

“Fixing the tractor,” Laura says, trying to get frosting off Lila’s cheek.

“Huh, that old thing really breaks a lot…” Steve says, but then memory catches up with him and he’s already running out the door, heading for the barn.

Thoughts come staccato as panic steers him. _Door is locked—break down door—find Bucky._

“Nick!” he bellows as he stumbles inside.

“Already left,” Bucky calls back.

Bucky is sitting on a bale of hay, gazing at his shoes. Body language indicates guilt, facial expression indicates resolution.

“What did you do?” Steve asks, stomach sinking.

Bucky looks up at Steve miserably. “Nothing, yet.”

~*~

Peter swings up to the penthouse and gets changed, trying to crumple up the spidey suit into a vaguely presentable shape. It’s really hard to fold the fabric nicely, he’s discovered. As diligent as he is about keeping it nice, it unfolds itself into a messy pile, like it’s got a mind of its own.

Maybe it does.

Peter tries not to think about it too much.

He gets dressed and waits around for Tony, who usually shows up right after Peter finishes dressing, but he’s still waiting twenty minutes later. “Friday? Where’s Tony?”

“Sir is in the lab. He says that he will be a while and that there is no need for you to wait for him.”

“Nah, that’s fine. I’ll just join him,” Peter says, dropping his backpack by the couch. “He promised to show me how an arc reactor works.”

“Sir has requested privacy. He thanks you for bringing the suit, but he is on a deadline. He will make the repairs and return the suit as soon as possible.”

“Oh…” Peter is disappointed, but he understands that Tony doesn’t always have time to talk. He leaves, but turns back when he reaches the elevator to see that the suit has already unfolded itself. _Oh well._

Peter waits.

And waits.

And waits.

The longest he’s ever had to wait for repairs to the suit was five hours. Two days later and Peter can’t wait any longer, he has to patrol, so he dons his old outfit. The sweats make movement difficult, and the eye gear is just… ugh.

He needs the spidey suit back. He doesn’t want to pester Tony but he has to know how it’s going on repairs.  Another two days and he still can’t get through to Tony, just keeps leaving messages with Friday who promises Tony will get back to him. Peter knows there’s a bunch of shit going down, so it makes sense at first.

Swinging by the tower proves fruitless, but by then Peter has a theory about what’s going on.

Peter doesn’t try the tower again, instead he calls Natasha who comes to pick him up from the station and drive him to the compound.

“Nice sweats,” she says, smirking a little at his costume.

“Tony is holding the suit hostage,” explains Peter, sighing in aggravation. “I assume he’s trying to get me to stop patrolling for some reason, but he’s being really stupid about it. I’m gonna patrol either way, but at least the spidey suit protects me. Like, spidey suit stops bullets. Sweat suit stops… nothing.”

“Can I be there when you point that out to him?” Natasha’s tone is light, but her expression is grim.

“Whatever, I just want to tell him to his face that I think he’s being a dick,” Peter says, shrugging.

“Good for you, honey,” Natasha says.

They pull up to the front doors and she walks him inside, dropping him in the kitchen. “You know where everything is. Vi made some cake, so feel free to get a slice while I hack Tony’s security and drag him out.”

“Who’s Vi?” Peter asks, but Natasha’s already in battle mode and isn’t listening to him as she storms out of the kitchen.

There is indeed cake waiting on the kitchen counter. It looks like it’s covered in hair, but actually it’s shredded coconut. “Who puts coconut on a cake?”

“I do!” says a cheerful voice behind him. He turns and sees an older woman with a halo of red hair. “Try a slice. Live a little,” she urges. She cuts a slice for him and plates it, handing it over with a fork.

“Oh, thank you,” he says, awkwardly lifting the bottom of his mask so he can try a bite. It’s weird, but it isn’t bad. “Good,” he mumbles through a mouthful.

“I’m Vi,” she says, smiling at him warmly as he destroys the slice.

“Uh… Spiderman,” he says, waving at her.

“What sort of name is that?” she asks, frowning a little.

“I have to keep my identity secret to protect my friends and family.” He wishes he could be like Tony. It would be nice to get recognition for what he does, to be able to claim credit for his good deeds. He’d even like to take credit for his mistakes, just so that if (god forbid) someone gets hurt because of him, he can apologize to them directly. But he’s not brave enough or rich enough to protect the people he cares about. There are bad people in the world, something he’s always known in a personal way, and he’s not going to invite them to aim missiles at his doorstep.

Still, nice to dream sometimes about what Mary-Jane might say if she knew that he saved lives on a daily basis…

Vi regales him with tales from her traumatic flight, and she’s just about to tell him what the nasty passenger in the aisle seat said to the single mother, when Natasha returns, kicking Tony into the kitchen. “Hey Pete,” Tony says weakly, waving.

Peter watches as Tony registers the sweats and goggles, turning paler and paler.

“Yeah, you didn’t really think it through, did you?” Peter asks, folding his arms.

Tony makes a pained squeaking noise before saying “You’ve… you’ve been patrolling in that?”

“Every night for the past week.”

“Unprotected for a week, Tony,” Natasha hisses.

Tony darts a glance at her and swallows hard, but squares his shoulders and holds his head up. “He was injured and didn’t ask for help. He’s talking to Deadpool and not calling for backup. I can’t… if I let him keep the suit it’s my fault if something bad happens. I thought… I thought he’d stop patrolling if he didn’t have the suit. I was trying to protect him.”

“Oh, that’s what I thought I was doing when I told my son he was going to hell,” Vi says quietly. They turn as one to gape at her. “Thought that if I made it clear I didn’t approve of him being gay, he’d stop. Like I’d be able to save him somehow, by making his life just a little more miserable. But in the end he died feeling like I didn’t love him. What a cold world my boy died in…”

“This isn’t like that at all,” Tony protests, waving his hands defensively.

“You think you’re protecting the boy, but you’re really protecting _yourself_. What does it matter if it’s your fault or not? If he’s going to do it anyway, than it’s your responsibility to make sure he’s as safe as possible. I should have told my son that I loved him, that I’d spit in God’s eye and walk hand in hand to hell if that’s what it came down to. You’re lucky that all you have to do is give the boy his suit back.” Vi cuts a slice of cake for herself and wanders out of the kitchen, leaving behind a heavy silence.

Peter knows what it's like to lose someone before you have a chance to reconcile. His stomach twists.

Tony looks haunted.

“I turned into my father…” he says.

“Tony, no,” says Natasha, eyes turning gentle with worry.

“No, shut up, this is important,” Tony says. “My father believed that his opinion was all that mattered, that he was the most right, always forever. He would sulk, yell, withhold attention—whatever it took to get me to comply. If I didn’t agree with him, it was because I didn’t care about him.”

“You’re not like that, Tony,” Peter says.

“Seriously guys, let me have a revelation here,” Tony groans. “Maybe I’m not at the level of ‘no more Christmas dinners ever because you hurt my feelings that one time’, but I’m not good at listening when people tell me no, or when people decide to do things their own way. I use every tactic I can to undermine decisions I don’t agree with.”

“Okay, you’re right about that,” Natasha allows.

“Peter, I’m sorry. I was wrong. Let me go get your suit,” Tony says, turning and heading back to the workshop.

Peter turns to look at Natasha, whose jaw has dropped. “A real apology. That was a _real_ apology, Peter. Fuck _me_.”

Tony returns quickly and throws the suit at Peter’s head. It almost falls into Peter’s second slice of cake and he yelps in protest. “Dude!”

“I’m proud of you Tony,” Natasha says, looking at Tony like she’s not sure he’s real.

“Yeah yeah, okay. Kumbaya moment over now. More important things to talk about,” Tony says, rubbing his hands together.

“Like what?” Peter asks, mouth sticky with cake.

Tony grins the sort of grin he gets after three days of no sleep, when he’s entering what they call his ‘Catastrophic Genius Phase’; his idea is going to be _brilliant_ or it will _trigger an apocalypse_ (that isn’t hyperbole—Ultron was created during a Catastrophic Genius Phase; four nights of no sleep and a late night showing of _Iron Giant_ , and Tony nearly killed the world.)

That is the grin that Tony wears as he says “Something Vi said got the wheels spinning again. I think I know how we’re going to stop Deadpool.”

Before he can elaborate, Friday interrupts. “Sir, you wished to be alerted should Miss Potts proceed with Plan Nine.”

“Yes?” Tony asks, grin disappearing.

“She has enacted Plan Nine, sir.”

“What’s Plan Nine?” Peter asks, setting down the plate gently.

“Last resort. Trial isn't going well,” Tony says quietly. 

“Shit,” says Natasha.

~*~

“You’re moping,” Blind Al says as she attempts to assemble the _Hemnes._ It’s not as entertaining as it usually is, which lends weight to Blind Al’s accusation.

“It, as in put a cork in,” Wade says dully.

“You’re always a bastard, but at least you’re usually sort of funny. Now you have nothing to redeem you. It’s pathetic,” Blind Al says as she struggles to put the door in upside down. It will never fit that way, which would delight him normally, but Wade finds the futility only triggers a sense of existential dread.

“You think I’m funny. Who’s really pathetic here?”

“Self-deprecation that’s only wrapped in a couple layers of irony? Are you suicidal? What’s happening?” she asks, stubbing her toe as she stumbles under the weight of the door that she’s failing to install. “Fuck!” she grunts.

It doesn’t even make him grin. “I think I’m moping,” Wade says.

“You’re an idiot,” Blind Al says. There’s no affection in her tone, but Wade knows better. They pretend like he kidnapped her and is keeping her prisoner, but if she wanted to leave she’d be gone. Except for that time he locked her in a closet. The few times he’s locked her in the closet. But the rest of the time she’s more than capable of leaving. Really, she’s only blind out of spite. She does it just to mess up the Ikea.

“And you would make Bob Vila’s ghost cry,” Wade says. It’s a lame retort, Bob Vila isn’t relevant enough for it to be snappy.

“What’s going on?” she asks, finally flipping the door to try it the other way. Now it’s in the right position up-and-down-ways, but it’s reversed. The handle is facing inward. Another useless cabinet, courtesy of his captive audience.

“I think I have a growth,” he says sadly.

“I thought that was normal, tumor boy,” Blind Al says, attempting to fit the next door in. She’s put them in in the wrong order. This one should have gone in first. She’ll never get it to work this way.

He groans and clutches at his chest. “Like, I can feel it in my chest writhing around whenever I try to kill someone, or steal something, or lie to my priest.”

“You don’t have a priest. You don’t go to church,” Blind Al points out.

“Okay, when I lie to the crazy man that lives in the dumpster behind Taco Palace. Point is, all the fun things I used to enjoy are making me miserable.”

“Sounds like your growth might be a terminal condition known as _A Conscience_.”

Wade snorts derisively. “You know I don’t speak Latin.”

Blind Al kicks at the door and it jams itself into the tracks. She stands back proudly, hands on her hips. It falls apart a few seconds later and she sighs sadly. “Will this Sisyphean nightmare ever end?”

“Prob’ly not,” Wade says.

“Let’s watch TV, asshole.” She grunts as she sits down and he wiggles closer to rest his head on her shoulder. She tolerates it and he soaks in the physical comfort of her presence. “I want to watch the news.”

“Boring,” he says, but gives her the clicker. She presses at it randomly until she chances upon a news station.

“And finally, The Winter Soldier Trial is nearing a verdict. Sources say that the outlook does not look good for the Avengers, who stand accused of harboring the criminal known as the Winter Soldier, formerly known as Bucky Barnes. The defense claims that Bucky Barnes was not responsible for his actions, which were performed under duress, but the pro—cu—claims-- *krrk*”

The image goes fuzzy as the sound cuts out, but a moment later it cuts back in. It’s video footage, time stamped for March of 1947. It shows a concrete room and in the center is a naked, emaciated man with long hair. He is naked, on his knees, chained to the floor. He is missing most of his left arm. Two men enter from the left of the screen and the man is dragged to his feet.

Wade tenses and tells Blind Al to leave the room, which she does without protest (for once).

Over the next twenty minutes Wade watches as the man on the screen is water boarded, electrocuted, whipped, and branded. He is given no orders and asked no questions—he doesn’t scream or beg for mercy, but he weeps gently when they leave.

The room changes and the date at the bottom of the screen indicates ten years have passed. Bucky Barnes has the metal arm of the Winter Soldier now and he is clothed. He is being given orders in Russian. First he is asked to balance on one leg. Then he is asked to do a handstand. In rapid succession they have him tie a complicated knot, hit a series of targets with throwing knives, and skin a rabbit. He performs each task perfectly and promptly, until they bring in a small child, young enough that the gender isn’t apparent. They order him to skin the child. He kills five attendants before they can subdue him, but when they do… Wade closes his eyes and covers his ears until it ends.

Another ten years pass and this video shows Barnes training a room of young girls to fight, watched by two attendants in white coats. One girl makes a mistake and Barnes is directed by an attendant to strike her. Barnes hesitates and is immediately electrocuted by a cattle prod. He falls to his knees, but they don’t stop. They strip him and electrocute his genitals, stone faced as he screams on the floor. When they feel they’ve made their point they step back and order him to dress, which he does quickly, sobbing brokenly. This time when he is ordered to strike the girl he staggers to his feet to comply, sending her flying across the room.

One video per decade, depicting some of the worst torture Wade has ever seen (Wade who was born again in the ashes of Weapon X, Wade who knew pain and torture personally long before he’d ever been wheeled through the doors). At some point Barnes stops fighting, any hint of personality disappears and is replaced by stone. Wade changes channels experimentally and discovers that the footage is airing on every channel, like he suspected. 

Eventually it stops, about two hours of footage in total, and cuts back to the news room which is empty. The shot lasts for thirty seconds before it cuts to a “technical difficulties” screen.

He turns the TV off and Blind Al wanders back in.

“You listening at the door?” He asks, suppressed emotion making his voice thick.

“Yeah. That what I think it was?” she asks, wobbling over to sit next to him on the couch.

“Yeah,” he says, turning to bury his face on her shoulder. He cries, then, pitifully.

He remembers more than he wants to, of course. Sometimes he can pretend it all happened to someone else, but it's so hard. He makes himself insane trying to dissociate from the things that have happened to him, but it's all there now, in his head, competing for space. He cries and cries, but Blind Al remains steady and eventually he can regain fractured composure.

When he’s done she turns to him and frowns. “Does this mean we’re not getting the _Undredal_?”

“We’ll have to settle for the _Kullen_ unless I can get another job,” he says, wiping his nose on her sweater.

“Ugh, I’m glad I’m blind,” she says.

Wade rolls his eyes. “You have no appreciation for minimalist design.”

“It’s Ikea. It’s _all_ minimalist.”

Wade stands up in mock indignation. “I don’t need to be lectured on design aesthetics by a woman who matches chartreuse with _mint_!”

“You’re the one that picks out my clothes, dick wad!” she shouts back, throwing the channel changer at his head with shocking accuracy.

He retreats to his closet, comforted by the enclosed space that means nothing can sneak up on him.

Knowing that Barnes went through seventy years of torture is different from seeing it. Wade could distance himself enough from Barnes to rationalize the contract, but now he can’t.

He really isn’t a good man. Sympathy, mercy, and kindness do not come to him naturally, or at all usually. Mostly with kids, but even then he hasn’t always been above tatering some tots. He has performed a wide range of atrocities and he never forgets it. But he knows that if he wants to be different, if he wants to make Spiderman proud, he has to cancel the contract.

The growth in his chest clenches and he groans, turning on his side and wishing he could escape the screaming in his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh my god it was so hard to write this week. 
> 
> In other news I've got a tumblr that I've started keeping to shove all the Marvel gifs and fan discussions that inspire me or give me ideas for characters (or make me laugh). I'm at [the-niche-corner](http://the-niche-corner.tumblr.com/), if you can stand tumblr.


	9. Rodent Sheriff

Nearly an entire year of anxiously waiting for someone to recognize Bucky in their midst, waiting for Ross to crack and go after them in spite of the information they held over his head, waiting waiting waiting. After all that, all they needed to do was leak video footage of their friend being tortured and the warrants are dropped. The public praises Bucky as a hero as though they weren’t discussing his “treason and betrayal” with frenzied pleasure only yesterday.

Bucky will be getting access to his army pension and all back pay owed, with interest, the same as Steve when they pulled him from the ice.

Wanda hates all of it.

She hates that Bucky has been exposed (she understands why Pepper did it, but… what a price for Bucky to pay. He didn’t even get a choice), she hates that the city is throwing Bucky a parade (it feels cheap, tacky), and she hates that it feels like it was too easy.

She declines to attend the ‘Welcome Back’ dinner that Tony throws for Bucky and Steve the night they return to the compound. She’s not hungry and she doesn’t want to pretend she’s happy.

Yes, she’s happy Bucky is safe but… it’s all wrong. They got here the wrong way and the path is just as important as the destination. Something tells her that their shortcut has consequences they cannot begin to fathom.

Vision waits fifteen minutes before he checks in on her. He’s definitely progressing.

“Wanda…” he says, knocking lightly at her open door.

“You can come in,” she says. She doesn’t really want company, but Vision doesn’t really count as company—he’s too much under her skin to count as a separate person.

Vision quickly joins her on the bed, reaching out a hand to stroke her hair “Are you unwell? Shall I take your temperature?”

Wanda suppresses the urge to make a joke about ‘playing doctor’. Tony really is her spirit father in many ways. “I’m fine, Vis. Just… not hungry.”

“It is strange that you have not greeted Barnes, at least. There is something amiss besides your lack of appetite,” Vision persists.

“I don’t wish to talk about it with you,” she says, gently nudging his hand away from where it’s still tangled gently in her hair. “Please, I want to be alone now.”

In general, although Vision is bad about predicting boundaries, he is good at backing off once it’s been made clear what Wanda wants. When she wants space he obliges, even if he doesn’t want to. But this time he holds his ground. “Wanda, I want to renegotiate the terms of our friendship in regards to the levels of intimacy that we currently enjoy together.”

Oh lord in heaven…

“What are you talking about?” Wanda sits up, frowning in confusion despite the growing certainty that she knows _exactly_ what Vision is talking about.

“I wish to have the highest level of intimacy with you, I want you to enter my mind, I want you to confide in me before all others, and I want access to you regardless of your state of dress or your current location,” he says quickly. It’s impossible to tell if he is blushing, possibly it’s impossible for him to blush, but he looks… embarrassed.

“I don’t know why you have such a hard time respecting my wish to remain undisturbed in the bathroom,” Wanda says, because she can’t think of anything else to say and that’s the easiest place to start.

“I miss you when you leave,” he says sincerely.

Despite the aggravation there is a large part of her that melts with his admission. “You’re like a pet cat or something…”

“Wanda,” Vision says, staring at her intensely. “I wish to become… lovers.”

In moments of extreme delicacy Wanda becomes very nervous and when she becomes nervous she starts to giggle. She giggled through her parent’s funeral and horrified everyone, cementing her reputation as a freak. It wasn’t because she found any humor in the situation, but the energy from her anguish had to go somewhere and she refused to cry. Pietro understood and held her hand as she giggled uncontrollably in the church.

Vision is not Pietro and doesn’t understand why Wanda giggles. His face falls and he turns away, moving to stand up. Wanda quickly grabs his arm, dragging him back down to the bed.

“Please, stay—I’m not laughing at you,” she gasps.

Vision frowns. “Explain how you are not laughing at me?”

“Because I don’t find it funny. I’m not laughing, I’m expending nervous energy, because you have just made me very, very nervous,” Wanda says, hoping that Vision will believe her. She’s calming down now which helps. He allows her to drag him back onto the bed and she sits hip to hip with him. “I won’t lie, I’ve wondered if we could be together like that. I’m not sure how that would work, you’re very… unique.”

“You’re referring to my lack of genitals or my lack of humanity?” Vision asks drily.

Wanda snorts and this time Vision joins her as she giggles.

Eventually she takes a deep breath and tries again. “You know why I never enter your mind?”

“I had wondered,” Vision looks down at his hands, shoulders raised to his ears in a visible display of his discomfort. “I admit I’m very jealous of Tony.”

“Because it goes both ways. When I am in your mind I can feel all of you, but you can also feel me. There are… parts of me that are very _not good_ and I’m terrified that you won’t like me anymore if you know how broken I really am.” Wanda looks at him, tries to see understanding in his gaze, but there is only confusion.

“I know that I may seem naïve, but do you really think I don’t see the darkness in you, Wanda?” Vision asks, leaning towards her slightly. “You think I don’t feel the danger under your skin? I see how desperately you wish to lose control when you are standing in the midst of battle. You could raze the entire world, send it into another dimension, twist every living mind to your whim. You are capable of so much more than you allow yourself. Don’t you see how thrilling you are? I want you because of that darkness, Wanda. That darkness that you’ve wrapped in kindness and mercy. I’m not scared to feel the knife edge of your soul.”

“I may cut you,” she warns.

“Don’t be trite. It’s annoying,” he says, closing the gap and kissing her gently. It’s an annoyingly good kiss. It makes her wonder if he has had practice and that thought sparks a little candle of jealousy.

“Have you been practicing?” she asks, breaking the kiss to eye him suspiciously.

He looks offended and sits back a little. “Absolutely not.”

“Just, you’re very good at this, Vis.” 

Vision immediately looks gratified and leans forward to resume. Wanda loses time in the slow drift of his kissing, which is gentle enough to be sweet and insistent enough to make her breathless. She pulls away eventually, feeling a little light headed. “Seriously, how are you this good?”

“When I was JARVIS I… I was very observant. It was part of my programming, you see. I made little games for myself and one of them was to catalogue kissing styles to predict outcomes. Sir inadvertently ensured that I had a statistically significant population to draw my conclusions from. I analyzed pressure, rhythm, moisture. All data indicated that the kisses which were received most favorably at the onset of physical intimacy were medium pressure and slow rhythm, with moderate saliva. I also analyzed a few separate but related intimate behaviors.”

Wanda blinks slowly, caught between amusement and slight horror. “What do you mean by separate but related intimate behaviors?”

Vision runs his hand up her thigh and allows his fingers to lightly brush under the very edge of her skirt, and with the other hand he cups her cheek. His hands are very warm and his pupils are dilated, breathing slightly elevated. “These gestures were received favorably 95% of the time, after sufficient acclimatization to physical contact had been established.”

Wanda wonders what other useful information JARVIS gathered and is about to ask Vision to demonstrate, when Bucky strolls through her door. He freezes as he takes in Vision’s hand up her skirt and her flushed face.

“Oooh my god,” Bucky breathes, immediately turning red.

All three of them are so used to Vision being the one who barges in on Bucky and Wanda having alone time that Vision mutters an apology and leaves before any of them think about it.

“I can make you think your teeth are bees,” Wanda says, apropos of nothing. “Just so you know, in case you were thinking of talking about this. At all.”

“Russians did that to me once. Part of the training. Another time they made me think I was on fire for an entire day,” he says conversationally.

Wanda didn’t watch the footage, at least not all of it. Just enough to hurt. She feels tears spring to her eyes. “Bucky…” she whispers, and he crosses the room to gather her in his arms.

“I’m so sorry if you saw any of it. I never wanted anyone to see. Honey, I’m so sorry,” Bucky murmurs, kissing the top of her head.

That pushes her over the edge. He has been violated in so many ways and he’s apologizing to her for it like his pain is a weapon he’s used to hurt her. She weeps miserably in his arms and he tries to soothe her, singing a lullaby in a language she doesn’t understand.

When she’s calmed down a little, he places a gentle hand under her chin so she looks up at him.

“Wanda, I need your help,” he says gently. “I need to get Michael out of my head and I need to do it tonight, if possible. Can you help me?”

Vision’s words return to her. _You could raze the entire world, send it into another dimension, twist every living mind to your whim._ Knowing you are limitless and feeling like you are limitless are two different things, and it’s something she struggles with. It gets in her way, the insecurity choking her and making her falter. But tonight she feels it.

“I can help you,” she says, and knows it is the truth. She is limitless and she will give Bucky anything he needs.

~*~

The biggest barriers to world peace are the people who have banded together to ensure it.

First, they set up endless meetings to discuss what they should do to combat terrorism, and then they have meetings about those meetings to decide how they are going to decide. Once they have had the meeting to decide on a decision process, they have a meeting to make the decision. Logically, after a decision has been reached action should follow, but logic has no bearing on the business of World Peace ™

After the meetings about decisions, there are meetings about jurisdiction and who is responsible for what. Are the police in the country which is currently at risk responsible for apprehending and imprisoning the perpetrators? What if the terrorist cell is from a different country? What if the terrorist cell has been responsible for attacks in multiple countries?

T’challa doesn’t know how they managed to move so quickly when they were chasing Barnes. That appears to have been a fluke, or possibly the influence of Zemo, who knew when and how to pull the strings, which is very disturbing. The man is responsible for T’chaka’s death, but T’challa has to admit that Zemo was better at leading these people in a single direction than any task force chief they’ve trotted out so far.

Everett describes the speed with which JCTC moves to eradicate global terrorism like this—

“It’s like a bulldog, right? But imagine the bulldog has one wooden leg, and also it has gout. Determined despite impediments.”

Okoye disagrees.

“It is more like a college student and a sink of dirty dishes that need to be cleaned. They will ignore the dishes and do every other chore in the house until they can no longer ignore the dishes, and then they will clean the dishes but they will whine about it the entire time; but later they will remind you that they cleaned the dishes when you yell at them about paying rent late, like it was their idea to clean the dishes and you should be grateful.”

“Personal experience?” Everett asks.

“Something like that,” says Okoye, glancing over at T’challa, who knows better than to point out he’s royalty and royalty shouldn’t have to do dishes. The Deity herself would have a hard time impressing Okoye, who usually has something to say about cats and kings when T’challa tries to insist upon his status.

Despite the glacial pace, they have just managed to take down a proto-organization, a nasty little carbuncle of disgruntled ex-military leaders from a defunct political faction that lost control of their country in a coup. They had set up sleeper cells in five other countries who had supported the side that won, planning to bomb highly populated areas. Not a single bomb detonated and each member was detained with no casualties, so it is an astonishing success.

When things go wrong there are meetings to assign blame, but those meetings are slightly more preferable to the meetings held when everything has gone right. There is nothing quite as disgusting as watching everyone scramble to claim the credit, breathing backhanded praise at each other, inventing new ways to be callous and ungracious in the face of victory. T’challa sits silently in these meetings and watches Ross, who is the most callous and ungracious of them all.

But this time Ross is stonily silent while the rest of the involved parties scramble to claim their portion of the credit, like beasts fighting over a carcass. Everett sits at Ross’ right hand and seems just as disquieted by Ross’ reticence, casting sidelong glances at his superior who merely clenches his jaw through the entire meeting.

Ross leaves once everyone has finished chewing all the virtue out of saving human lives, sucking marrow from the bones of goodness.

 “Any chance Ross making it through one meeting without behaving like a bag of dicks _isn’t_ the sign of the coming apocalypse?” Everett asks, hopefully.

“Maybe he has a terminal illness,” Okoye suggests blandly.

“I’m betting on the apocalypse,” T’challa says.

Ever since the first siege at the Avengers compound, T’challa has been investigating the JCTC, but mainly Ross. The red book could only have come from someone who had access to the evidence lockers associated with the Zemo case. They suspected Ross from the outset but there is nothing so far that proves his involvement. The man is above suspicion; as far as evidence is concerned he’s just an asshole. An innocent asshole.

But intuition keeps T’challa from ending his investigation.

Men of science often disregard intuition, as though it isn’t merely another sense with which we engage the world. But T’challa knows that intuition is often the byproduct of unconscious observation, an accumulation of clues our minds didn’t notice at first. It is unreliable when used alone, swayed by prejudice and a host of other unforeseeable factors, but a cabinet cannot be built with just a hammer—one must use multiple tools. So T’challa investigates all possible suspects, keeping a careful eye on Ross and trying not to dismiss Everett out of hand.

Because Everett also had access to the evidence lockers.

It’s hard for T’challa to believe that he could be mistaken about Everett’s character, but he is not willing to completely trust anyone, not even Okoye. Still, it feels a little like betrayal. Although if Everett is the man T’challa hope he is he will understand why T’challa will not dismiss him as a suspect until evidence proves his innocence.

After a successful operation wraps up they are usually given a couple days off before they start their next assignment. The tradition is to start with a drink in T’challa’s office, once the soul-crushing meeting is finished. They have spent so many nights here, him, Okoye, and Everett. Working, laughing, sleeping. It reminds T’challa of his days in college with his cohort, the closeness that is bred from necessity.

Everett and Okoye argue about what takeaway to order, and T’challa reclines on the small couch that normally holds mission related paperwork. It’s blessedly empty now that everything has been wrapped up, so he decides to take a short nap. Before he drifts off he mumbles “Get Thai from that place with the stuff…” He’s asleep before he hears their response, but he’s certain they will listen to him. He is a king, after all.

He dreams.

In the dream he is made of ice and his blood flows jaggedly through his veins like ice floes down a river. Everything that lives dies at his touch, everything he holds shatters and cracks like glass. He walks through the world hated and feared, and in turn hates and fears everything he sees. The dream shifts and suddenly he is on fire, his blood shooting through his veins in explosive bursts, and everything burns at his feet. He stands desolate, king of nothing, ruler of ash.

The only thing that withstands the freeze and the flame is an old mirror, the frame depicts a large serpent, tail held firmly in it’s own jaws. He moves to stand in front of it but when he looks at his reflection he finds a pale faced stranger, long dark hair tangled and wild. The face in the mirror grins brokenly at him and leans forward, hissing “A horse… A horse… My kingdom for a horse…”

T’challa jerks awake as Okoye sets down three boxes of pizza and promptly forgets his dream as he opens his mouth to complain “I wanted Thai!”

Okoye grins mischievously as Everett walks in with a bag from the Thai place.

“Here you go, highness,” Everett says, smirking, setting it down next to the pizza.

“I don’t know why I shouldn’t execute the pair of you,” he mutters, sitting up and eagerly breaking into the box of glass noodles.

“Because you hate getting food for yourself,” huffs Everett through a mouthful of burning hot cheese.

“Because you don’t know how to load a dishwasher,” Okoye says, patiently letting her slice of pizza cool and watching with disgusted amusement as Everett plows through a second slice of burning hot pizza.

“I get no respect,” T’challa says, unable to completely disguise the fondness in his voice.

The evening passes pleasantly, and dreams of fire and ice are replaced with cold beer and molten pizza.

T'challa is easily disillusioned by the business of saving the world--the paperwork, the pettiness, the process--but in these quiet moments he is reminded of why it's so important to fight. Someone has to try to make the world safe enough for these moments to exist, and it's impossible for one person to do it alone. T'challa finds that he wants to agree more with Everett about the JCTC--he wants to believe that it's like a little bulldog, struggling to move forward but determined to get there. He's cynical though, so cynical. But maybe that is the problem. Maybe if more people believed that they could move forward together things would be easier and people would cooperate more.

He decides that he will try to be optimistic, and as he laughs with two beloved friends he thinks that maybe it won't be so hard to do.

~*~

“The ants are behaving strangely,” says Dr. Pym darkly, watching as three army ants juggle peas.

Scott blinks down at the table and then back up at Dr. Pym. “You mean you aren’t making them do that?”

“What?” Dr. Pym asks, looking up at Scott sharply.

“You aren’t making them juggle?” Scott asks, assuming that was the behavior Pym was talking about.

“No, I’m making them juggle. I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about that--” Pym points over at a large ant farm that is built into the wall, a pane of glass revealing the intricacies of the nest. They… appear to be acting like ants.

“Oh, okay. I, uh, I don’t understand what you mean,” Scott says, wincing a little.

“Those ants are on their night cycle. They should be asleep in their nest.”

Nearly every ant in the tank is piled up outside the nest, twitching their antennae. Now that Pym has pointed it out Scott can tell that the ants are tense. “What does it mean?”

“Usually it means an earthquake is inbound in the next 24 hours, but they have been acting like that for 48 hours and still no earthquake.”

“Huh,” says Scott, who can admit that it’s kinda creepy, but… ants are usually kinda creepy. Less creepy than they used to be, of course. Scott has a lot of friends who happen to be ants, but still. He knows better than to say this to Pym though. “What should we do?”

“I don’t know,” says Pym, letting the army ants wander off to wherever the ants go when they aren’t doing Pym’s mundane bidding. “If they don’t stop soon they’ll die, though.”

“Can we ask them what’s wrong?” Scott asks, frowning in concern. That’s a lot of ants to die for no reason, a sentiment he never would have expected to hold.

“They don’t communicate like that, unfortunately. They are expressing extreme distress, but other than that they have no way to communicate details,” Pym says sadly.

“Can we tell them to calm down?” Scott asks, standing up to walk over to the tank. He presses a hand against the glass, heart breaking a little.

“I’ve tried, but as soon as I stop they go back to that,” Pym says, pointing at the huddle. “They aren’t eating or drinking. They’re going to die from exhaustion.”

“Fuck,” says Scott, feeling more and more distressed the longer he regards the tank. “Are they the only ones freaking out, or are the other ants doing it too?”

“That’s what I was testing just now,” Pym says, blinking down at the table rapidly, worry making his eyes flit back and forth. “They’re all acting a little sluggish, a little hard to communicate with. I’m very concerned, Scott.”

“Should we warn someone?” Scott asks, turning back to look at Pym.

Pym’s expression darkens. “What, like Tony Stark?” he spits. “Yes, I’m sure Tony Stark will care that the ants are distressed. Why don’t you go and tell him about it?”

Scott remains silent in the interest of keeping his job, but later when he is back in his apartment he regards his phone.

It’s stupid, but… if it’s something, someone else should know. He calls Stark.

“Bug Boy!” Tony chirps with false brightness. He’s as wary of Scott as Scott is wary of him.

“Hey Ritchie Rich, listen, I got a… well, this is going to sound really stupid, but I’ll feel like a jerk if I don’t report it to you guys. The ants are behaving weirdly. All of them.” Scott wants to punch himself in the face, he can’t believe he just said that to Tony fucking Stark.

Stark is silent on the other end of the line, likely filtering through a long list of choice insults and picking the best one.

“Okay… you want to elaborate?” Tony asks. Scott is surprised to hear that Tony sounds relatively serious.

“They’re acting like there’s going to be an earthquake, but they’ve been doing it for two days. Pym says that usually they only behave like that for a little while. They’re going to die if they don’t stop soon, so it seems pretty serious. I just wanted to let you know, in case other weird things start happening.” Scott only sort-of helped the Avengers that one time. He doesn’t want to work with them, but… if something is about to happen it’s important for everyone to be prepared.

“I’ll keep an eye out. Thanks for the heads up, Larvae Lad.” Tony hangs up before Scott can jab back.

“Asshole,” he mutters.

Still, that went better than he expected it to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter, very rough, just posting what I can. Everything is plotted out and I know exactly where this story ends and how I get there. There are about six chapters to go, but I think I need a wee break, so I'm not going to post next week.


	10. Bowl Brite

“It’s Wednesday night, we’re not in prison. Let’s go on a date,” Natasha says, dropping out of an air vent and landing on Sam, who screams and drops the pile of towels he just pulled from the dryer. They crumple into an uncomfortable heap on the floor. Natasha decides her bruised and throbbing knee is worth the look of terror Sam wears as he blinks up at her.

“You batshit crazy bi--”

“I can kill you with my pinky,” she interrupts quickly, raising an eyebrow.

“--yootiful woman,” Sam finishes weakly.

“Date. Take me. Now,” she demands, squeezing his chest tightly between her thighs.

“Oh my,” says Violet, stepping out of the laundry room and looking down at them.

Natasha feels a rare flush of embarrassment and stands quickly. “He promised to take me on a date. I’m just… following up,” she says, shoulders hunching awkwardly. Her upbringing makes her wary of older women, never quite able to shake the feeling that they are judging her posture and form, and planning her imminent death.

Violet throws her head back and laughs. “Riley would have liked you. Well… he wouldn’t have approved of you stepping in on his territory, but he would have approved of your methods. He wasn’t one to wait and pine either.”

Sam looks flustered as he stands up, not quite able to meet Violet’s knowing gaze. Natasha gets the distinct impression that Sam and Violet have never talked about the nature of his relationship with Riley.

Violet smiles at Sam, a slightly sad tilt to her mouth. “I’ll take the towels. Take your lady out, before she takes you out.”

Natasha appreciates the word play and smiles shyly at Violet as she leaves.

When she’s gone Natasha chances a look at Sam, who is pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’re not gonna talk about it, ‘kay?”

“Take me on a date and the whole thing is forgotten,” Natasha promises.

“Okay. Get ready, we leave at nine,” Sam says.

“Where are we going?” she asks keenly.

“It’s a surprise.” His grin is obnoxiously smug and Natasha wants to kiss it off his face, but he’s being frustratingly evasive when it comes to initiating that kind of contact. It’s driving her crazy, but… it’s thrilling to _chase_ for once.

“One clue, come on,” she pleads. “I need to dress appropriately!”

“Okay, one clue,” he says, folding his arms and looking her up and down. “ _Cosmic._ ”

Observatory? Star gazing? There’s a movie about astronauts right now, so maybe that?

She decides to dress in a short black dress and stilettos, because when you’re trying to seduce someone it’s _always_ appropriate.

“Bowling?” she groans twenty minutes later.

“ _Cosmic_ bowling,” Sam corrects, throwing his arms wide, clearly impressed with himself.

“What the hell is cosmic bowling?”

It’s bowling with black lights and loud music she soon discovers. Sam throws her a pair of socks that he tucked in a coat pocket and she grudgingly slips out of her stilettos and into a worn pair of bowling shoes. They buy a couple beers, a tray of evil looking nachos, and settle down at their lane.

“You ever bowled before?” Sam asks as he enters their names onto the scoreboard.

“No. Never shot myself in the head either. Not really something I thought of as ‘fun’,” Natasha says petulantly, arms folded.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Hit the pins with the ball, you knuckle head.”

Natasha rolls her eyes too. “Obviously.”

Despite herself Natasha starts to have fun once she starts kicking Sam’s ass. She is very good at bowling, and Sam is very bad at losing.

“Oh, oh FUCK--” Sam howls in frustration as Natasha gets another strike. “I’m gonna kick your ass next round, I swear to god.”

Natasha pumps her fist in triumph and spins to hip thrust at Sam. “Bring it, Tweety!”

After she wins the first game they take a break to get more beers and people watch. Sam see-saws between smiling at Natasha like she’s the greatest thing that’s ever happened to him and cursing her thoroughly and inventively for winning. Natasha keeps a running commentary on the other bowlers for Sam’s benefit, making outrageous claims about them based on clues.

“That woman there. Her skirt is from Walmart but her shirt is couture.” Natasha points discretely at a woman three lanes down.

“So she’s, what… assassin?” Sam guesses, grinning as he waits for her absurd proclamation.

“Not even close. She trains dogs for a living.”

“Bullshit. How’d you pull ‘dog trainer’ out your ass?” Sam asks, squinting disbelievingly.

“She has a cheap skirt but an expensive shirt. Dog hair only gets on the bottom half of her wardrobe, which is why she’s purchased something much cheaper and easier to clean. Scratches on the leg from a poorly trained dog. When she gets a good score she clicks her fingers compulsively—she’s used to clicking after desired behaviors, to train the dogs,” Natasha explains.

Sam throws his head back and laughs, and Natasha grins as she sips her terrible beer. It’s all bullshit of course, but it’s fun. Sam tries it too, pointing at a man with a glorious beer gut who is inhaling a bag of peanuts, shelling them mindlessly as he waits for his turn.

“See that cut on his thumb?” Sam asks. It’s impossible to see something like that from this distance in such low light, but Natasha snorts and plays along.

“Yeah? Let me guess, he’s… a serial killer?” Natasha asks.

“Nah, he trains squirrels. See how he shells those peanuts? He’s used to shelling them when the squirrels perform a desired behavior. Bite is from a poorly trained squirrel,” Sam says with a completely straight face.  

Natasha splutters and gets beer all over herself and Sam loses it, nearly falling off his chair.

It’s the best date she’s ever been on, honestly. 

They can’t stop giggling and almost miss it when the empty lane next to them is claimed by a tall, dark stranger. Sam looks up and freezes, patting Natasha’s shoulder insistently until she looks up. When she does she nearly loses it again—the man, who has a goatee that is nearly as fussy as Tony’s, is decked out in black robes, an outrageous gold pendant on a chain, and an honest to goodness cape. It flares out dramatically as he steps up to the lane, cradling a custom bowling ball that glows slightly in the black lights. It looks like a globe, continents and oceans and thin swirling clouds in intricate detail rest between his well-shaped hands. He inhales deeply and releases the ball in a smooth, practiced motion. It hits perfectly, scattering the pins with a satisfying crash.

Natasha has seen many strange things, knows that New York City is a weird place even by her standards, but still—this has to be one of the weirdest people she’s ever seen.

Still, Natasha and Sam lose interest after a while, the novelty of a man who isn’t from Asgard wearing a cape in a casual setting wears off as he proves otherwise unremarkable.  He bowls well and that’s about it.

They decide to leave shortly after, Natasha giving the socks back to Sam who tucks them in a coat pocket. She grips his shoulder as she slips back into her stilettos, and the physical closeness is charged in a way it usually isn’t. They’ve touched each other before, a quick hand up during a mission, a comforting embrace during a difficult time, friendly jabs and pokes in the hallway as they pass. His hand drifts to grip her waist, the touch lingering a little longer than necessary as she straightens up.

She knows how to flirt, how to angle her face to maximize it’s attractiveness, how to smile her way into anyone’s bed (or at least into the hotel room—the bedroom eyes turn deadly once the door closes, and her intended is usually too busy being dead to make it past first base). She has control over every muscle in her face, but the shy smile she gives to Sam is genuine. There are real butterflies in her stomach and the answering smile on his face is gentle, perhaps a hint of the same shyness she feels.

He leans in slowly, giving her time to turn away, but when she responds by angling closer he kisses her chastely.

It’s the sweetest kiss she’s ever been given. It is like gentle sunshine on her skin after a long winter, cold water after a stifling day, refreshing and soothing for her soul. She mourns for herself, the girl she used to be, who could only dream of kisses which weren’t thick with sex and the threat of ownership.

Sam kisses her like she’s holy.

“Let’s get gelato,” he says quietly, hugging her to his side briefly before stepping back. She misses the physical contact, but he twines his fingers through hers and walks towards the exit. For the first time in a long time Natasha feels like she’s ready for someone else to take the lead. Sam knows where they’re going and she trusts him.

The night is cold but Sam’s hand is warm and steady, and Natasha lets herself feel safe.

~*~

Violet pours herself another Scotch and then settles back in the comfy chair across from the couch where Tony is reclining.

“That must have been terrifying,” she murmurs as she sips at her Scotch. “I can’t believe you went in with only a partial suit.”

“Weirdly, the most terrifying part about that whole ordeal was when I lost access to JARVIS. I had become almost completely dependent on him, or at least in my mind I was. That kid saved my life when he reminded me who I was, even if he was an annoying little shit...” Tony gets a little choked up thinking about it, but manages to keep it out of his voice.

Violet smiles gently at him, not fooled in the least. “Do you still talk to him?”

“Eh, I send him Christmas cards. I’m paying for his college, holding a job for him. Figure he’s a solid investment,” Tony says, pretending that there’s nothing more personal than that. He’s just picking bright minds for the future of his business, not trying to semi-adopt a kid.

Just like he’s not trying to adopt Peter.

 _I don’t want to be a father, I’m just… nosy_ , he thinks firmly.

“How did it feel when you blew up all the suits?” she asks, and he realizes no one ever asked him before.

Pepper never asked him. He blew up the suits and she said “That’ll do” like he wasn’t destroying pieces of himself. Yeah, he had gone overboard with his paranoia, and maybe he had an unhealthy attachment to those suits, but his pain had been her Christmas gift. Even Tony can see how fucked up that is, now. They really were awful for each other.

Only other person he’d talked to about how it felt had fallen asleep before they could ask something like that.

“It hurt, I guess,” he says shortly, taking a sip of his drink.

Violet doesn’t say anything to that, just watches him.

Tony can’t abide silence and it makes the rest of it bubble up and out of him against his better judgement. “I’m not just an engineer, I’m an artist. I care about the things that I make, you know? Even if they don’t work or they’re silly, they’re mine. When I had nothing and no one I still had what I made with my own two hands. Each one of those suits was mine. I designed them, I watched them being born. Children of my mind, Athena from the head of Zeus. Yeah, I used it as an excuse to disengage from the world, but at least I didn’t use women or drugs like I used to. Wasn’t that better? Shouldn’t I get some credit?”

“Depends on how bad it was,” Violet says with a gentle smile, but she says it kindly and Tony smiles ruefully, calming down a little.

“I am a bastard at the best of times, so I’m sure it was… draining on the people around me,” he says, conceding her point.

“Still, it sounds like you didn’t have much support. I don’t like the sound of this ‘friend’ who fell asleep on you.” Violet frowns angrily and Tony snorts.

“I’m not good at respecting boundaries sometimes. I shouldn’t have pushed it on him.”

“He shouldn’t have agreed to it if it was that much of an imposition, even if you were being pushy. You were both at fault,” she insists.

“I just feel like a wimp for still whining about it years later. I don’t know why it hurt so much. I should get over it, you know?” Tony is frustrated with himself, feels pinpricks of tears in his eyes so he closes them and tries to will it away. It’s stupid. It’s just the scotch.

“Nothing hurts worse than not being listened to,” Violet says quietly, staring into her glass with a dark emotion.

“Yeah,” Tony says.

He’s been spending more time with Violet, ever since she called him on his bullshit. It turns out she’s a really good listener, and Tony has about thirty years of validation he needs to catch up on. She doesn’t seem to mind. He needs a mom and she needs a son.

“I’m feeling maudlin,” Vi announces dramatically, like it’s not already obvious.

“You’re Irish, lady. I think your people call that baseline.” Tony gestures with his drink in an emphatic way and sloshes a little over the side.

Vi sits up, wobbling a little. “Careful, boy. You’re not too old to go across my knee,” she threatens.

“I pay extra for that sort of thing,” he says, smirking lasciviously.

Violet barks out a harsh laugh and settles back into her seat. “You’re a real cunt, Tony Stark,” she says fondly. “Tell me something weird. Get me out of this mood.”

“The ants are dying,” Tony says, because that is the weirdest thing he can think of. Ants dying is weird. Scott calling him about it is downright terrifying. Friday is running various searches across world news and twitter trends, trying to piece together patterns, see if it indicates something bigger, but so far zilch. Just a bunch of sad ants for no reason.

Vi blinks at him in slight bewilderment.

Tony raises a challenging glass at her. “That weird enough for you, lady?”

“Why are the ants dying? Which ants are dying? That’s horrible!” Violent cries, swinging from pleasantly moody drunk to very unpleasantly upset drunk.

Tony isn’t prepared to handle her emotions and is swept along, suddenly finding himself experiencing a sympathetic prickling of tears. “I don’t know, but it’s unfair. Friday, call Scott!”

“Sir, it’s late--”

“I said call Scott!”

The line gets out a half ring before Scott answers, slightly breathless. “Hello?”

“Wow, you picked up fast,” Tony says, raising an eyebrow in surprise. Even the people that like him ignore his phone calls this late at night.

“Your ringtone is inappropriate for present company.” Ah, that explains it.

Tony rolls his eyes, trying not to be amused. “Do I want to know?”

“Uh, probably not. If we were friends you’d find it funny though,” Scott says cheerfully.

“Why are the ants dying?” Violet cries, unable to wait any longer for Tony to ask the question.

There is a pause of awkward silence before Scott asks “Who the heck is that?”

“Through a series of strange and convoluted coincidences, I have become host to a nosy Irish woman. She is worried about the ants and I find her moods infectious,” Tony says, gesturing articulately even though Scott can’t see him. “Give us the ant report, Lang.”

“Uh, alright, well, ants are still alive. We’re taking shifts trying to keep them calm, but they’re still acting weird.” Scott’s voice is quiet and tense.

On the other end of the line Tony can hear someone say _“Who the hell is on the phone?”_

“No one,” Scott says quickly, but there is a scuffle and the other person obviously gets the phone because there is an angry voice on the line suddenly.

“Who the hell is this?” says the angry man, and Tony misses his dad a little.

“Tony Stark, at your service.” He has a good idea who is on the other line and he only feels a little sorry for Scott.

“ _Stark_ ,” the man growls his name like it’s a filthy word.

“Dr. Pym, I presume.”

“Leave Scott alone. You aren’t getting my formula,” Pym hisses.

Howard always went on about how insane Pym was, so of course Tony always sort of liked Pym. It was rare that someone saw past Howard’s fame and fortune, and even rarer that someone had the integrity to openly hate Howard Stark. More often they swallowed their pride and followed along in Howard’s wake to preserve a career and the powerful connections afforded by his good will.

“Dude, I don’t want your formula. What formula?”

“The formula your bastard father was always pestering me for!”

Yeah, Howard was right, this guy is insane.

“Listen, buddy, first off I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. Second, Scott contacted me about the ants first, I’m just following up ‘cause I’m worried about ‘em. But third and most important _I’m not my father, jackass_.”

He’s lost count of how many times he’s shouted, screamed, sobbed that phrase: _I’m not my father_.

Shouted it at Obie after disappointing the man countless times, shouted it at one-night stands who wanted the legacy and got an unchaming bundle of nerves and cocaine instead, sobbed it to himself at night in an attempt to reassure himself that he was his own person. Always, always the admission is met with disappointment.

But Pym’s voice softens. “Huh, maybe not. Not that I’ll believe you, but you really care about the ants? You aren’t trying to use Scott?”

“What the hell am I going to use Scott for? I’m developing nanobots that will get into crevices Scott could only dream of, and I won’t get sassed by ‘em either. Anyway, if I wanted to make big things small I’d figure it out how to do it on my own. I don’t like using other people’s work if I don’t understand it.”

“And the ants?” Pym asks, sounding amused now.

“Scott said the ants were upset. I’ve been combing news reports and various social media sites trying to figure out if they’re reacting to something, you know… spooky.” Tony knows it’s paranoid, but… he survived an alien invasion. Ants acting weird is probably a sign of something bad and he’s not getting caught off guard again.

“A Stark with half a brain. Never thought I’d live to see the day,” Pym says, grudgingly pleased.

Dr. Pym prefers him over his father. Tony is petty enough to be deeply pleased by that.

“The ants are still unsettled, but whatever disturbed them must be reaching a conclusion. They are less agitated, and are eating and drinking on their own again,” Pym says, the earlier animosity almost entirely absent from his tone. “If you come up with any possible explanation, let us know. Here’s Scott.”

Pym passes the phone back and Scott comes back on the line, sounding slightly freaked out. “What did you say to him?”

“Ask him, I’m not rehashing the conversation with you. Sorry to have disturbed you so late, anyway. Call me if anything changes with the ants,” Tony says before ending the call.

Violet has passed out on the couch. Tony will tell her about the ants tomorrow.

What a weird night.

~*~

When HYDRA captured him and decided to make him useful their first obstacle was finding ways to motivate him.

They started gently with basic humiliation whenever he shut down and refused to cooperate, nudity and invasive exams in front of a crowd of interested onlookers in white coats while they tried to find out why he was “behaving badly”. That never worked well because Bucky didn’t care who saw him naked, or what they shoved where. He was practical about these things and it was just a body.

Pain worked well, but only when it got to the point where it threatened real damage, and HYDRA never wanted to break their toys. At least not their expensive toys. In the end hypnosis and an intense cocktail of drugs was all it took to bring Bucky to heel, but by then Bucky had experienced all the delicate tortures that HYDRA could bring to bear.

Bucky thinks that HYDRA would burn in shame if they knew that a petite, well-meaning redhead in a business suit broke Bucky down more completely than 70 years of their best and brightest. He would have done anything for her to keep the footage buried and out of the reach of his few loved ones. And she didn’t even want to control him, that’s the funny part. She made no demands, no requests before she ripped open his chest for everyone to see.

“To protect you,” Tony says, when Bucky demands to know why. _Why?_

For once he’s angrier than Steve about something; Steve looks defeated, hollowed out with his grief. He didn’t watch the footage, doesn’t want to see, and Bucky is grateful that at least one person in the world isn’t a witness to… to that.

But Pepper fixed the immediate problems with her gamble, didn’t she? He’s free now and has lots of money. Isn’t that nice? Isn’t that lovely? He can go outside now, even. Walk down the city streets as a free man. Except he can’t, because everyone knows his face now. They know his secrets, his shame and his pain. They have all seen him weak and frightened, and the thought of leaving the compound makes him nauseated.

Bucky gives himself a week to feel everything before he shoves it all away again, tucking it into the spaces of his psyche until it looks clean. He’s good at that kind of emotional Tetris.

He waits until everyone is asleep before he steals Tony’s car and heads into town with a half formed plan. It’s stupid but he can’t wait any longer. He’s as prepared as he can be.

He parks the obnoxiously yellow car illegally next to an all-night taco cart, buys about thirty tacos, and heads off into the darkness, leaving the car behind. He’s hoping it attracts a lot of tickets and that Tony bothers Pepper about it. Both of them can go fuck themselves.

Hefting the tacos under one arm he turns down a likely looking alleyway and starts climbing the building, gouging out handholds in the brick with his metal hand until he makes it to the top of the building. He looks around, spots a little protected corner behind a very large vent, and walks over quickly to crouch down and wait. It shouldn’t take long.

About twenty minutes later he hears the near inaudible sound of someone joining him on the roof, probably climbing up using the same handholds he just created. He takes five seconds to think about what to say, but decides to just wing it. Fuck it all anyway.

“I got you tacos,” he says, standing up and walking around the corner of his hiding spot. Deadpool appears to be unarmed, but Bucky makes sure he stays angled away slightly so his arm can deflect any bullets that may come his way.

Deadpool’s hands fly up to his face and he squeals. “Oh my god! Yes I’ll marry you!”

He bought thirty tacos for the guy who’s trying to kill him and he’s still not the weirdest bastard on the roof. Bucky feels kind of upset about that—he was certain he found a way to one-up Deadpool. But he doesn’t say any of that, instead he says “What?”

“No one has ever proposed to me on a rooftop before. This is very romantic,” Deadpool gushes. “I think we should have a winter wedding, not a spring one. I know spring is more traditional, but we’re not very traditional. Plus it matches your code name, which ties into how we met kinda. I think you’d look beautiful in a cerulean blue suit, and I have the perfect dress! I bought it on sale; Vera Wang for only $600 if you can believe it. I had to punch a lady in the face to get my hands on it, but all’s fair in fashion and intrigue.”

This guy is fucking crazy. “Not a proposal,” Bucky says warily, angling himself further behind his arm.

“But why would you buy me tacos unless you were deeply in love with me?” Deadpool asks, sounding crestfallen.

“I’m trying to buy you off again. Figured you didn’t like money, maybe you’d like tacos,” Bucky says carefully.

He figured no such thing, at least not without Peter’s help. Bucky had called the kid and asked about possible weaknesses, and Peter had said “tacos” with confidence. It seemed like a joke at first, but Peter clarified. “I thought it was a joke at first too, but you know how I can tell when people are lying? He wasn’t lying. He really would drop everything for a bag of tacos. Or at least he thinks he would. No idea what he’d do after he finishes the tacos, but… bring tacos with you. Bring a lot of tacos.”

Deadpool cocks his head. “Money didn’t work, so your next thought was ‘tacos’, and _I’m_ supposed to be Commander Cuckoo-Bananas…”

“Everyone likes tacos,” Bucky says defensively. “They’re from the _Taco-Taco_ truck. These are the best ones in the city.”

“Shit,” breathes Deadpool. “Did you get the salsa?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says cautiously. “Got the hot though, not the mild.”

“Mild is for squares,” Deadpool says, making grabby hands at the bag. Bucky tosses it to him and Deadpool catches it, opens it, and shoves his face inside, moaning pornographically as he inhales. “Fuuuuck me in the ass.”

“I was hoping we could talk instead,” Bucky chirps.

Deadpool peers inside the bag. “How many tacos did you get?”

“Thirty.”

“You sure you’re not in love with me?” Deadpool checks.

“Only got one sweetheart, sorry,” Bucky says, shrugging an apology.

Deadpool waves it off, unconcerned. He walks to the edge of the roof to sit down, then he pulls up the bottom of his mask and breaks into the tacos. His skin is scarred and crusted with pus, but Bucky doesn’t react to the sight. He cautiously moves to sit next to Deadpool, metal arm placed defensively between them.

“You talk. I’ll eat,” Deadpool says magnanimously.

Bucky frowns a little, not sure how to move forward. “Thanks, uh. I don’t really know what I want to say…”

“ _Ah’f nffr hah tha pwrahblm_ ,” Deadpool says through a mouthful of taco. He swallows hard and says a little more intelligibly “Just talk, man. I’ll listen.”

“Okay, uh. I don’t think you want to kill me, first off. Not really. I think you want money, but I think that your heart isn’t in this. I was asleep, you could’ve ended it clean. I don’t think you’re into the cat and mouse bullshit, even if you are psychotic.” Bucky hopes that wasn’t too offensive, but it’s too late to take it back, might as well push through. “I think you really do want to be a good guy, even if Stark thinks you’re just trying to take advantage of Spidey. For what it’s worth, Spidey thinks you want to be a good guy too.” Deadpool chews through a third taco, body language unreadable. Bucky decides to wrap it up by saying “I liked the paint job you did on my nails, anyway. I’ve kept ‘em painted. So, thanks for that, even if you decide we still need to be enemies.”

Deadpool finishes his taco and belches with satisfaction. “Good taco.” He picks at his teeth a little before turning to look at Bucky. “So. What’s your optimal outcome for tonight?”

Bucky leans back a little and considers. “You don’t kill me. You help me catch the asshole that hired you. You share one of those tacos with me.”

Deadpool pulls his mask back down and stands up. “Canadian law dictates that once you have fed me I can no longer kill you. If I break that law I forfeit my natural Canadian sex appeal, and I ain’t gonna jeopardize that, so rest easy Bucky Bear. But I need to think about whether to help you catch my sugar daddy. People in my circle frown on breaking contracts, and they double-mega frown on turning against benefactors. You can imagine what it’ll do to my Yelp! Page.”

“And the taco?” Bucky asks as Deadpool walks away.

“Get your own fucking tacos!” he shouts before disappearing.

Bucky drives home, windshield wipers holding down a satisfying number of tickets, wondering if it could actually be this easy. Everything seems to be too easy these days, but Deadpool had come unarmed to begin with. Maybe Deadpool had already decided to drop the contracts and the tacos were convenient timing. Bucky learned long ago that anything you walk away from should be counted as a victory, so he tries not to second guess it. Tonight he lives and tomorrow is another fight.

He parks the car in Tony’s garage, flips off the security cam, and goes back to his room where Steve is still tangled in their sheets, asleep. Bucky stands in the doorway and watches while Steve breathes easily, not even a hint of a snore. It’s magical, really.

He crawls into bed and wraps himself around Steve, who wakes up just enough to say “We’ll talk about you sneaking out tomorrow,” before falling back to sleep. Bucky grins a little and kisses Steve’s neck gently.

His anxiety leaves him as he listens to Steve breathe. Consciousness departs soon after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three chapters and an epilogue left. I can't believe I'm nearing the end of a second fic.
> 
> After this story is finished the series will go on a bit of hiatus until after a couple more Marvel movies are released, so I can decide if/how I want to include new characters.
> 
> However, I want to keep writing, so I'm toying with the idea of writing an ongoing series of short fics that are essentially "deleted scenes" based on any requests readers might have--in either story was there something you wanted to see that I hinted at but didn't flesh out?
> 
> Either that or taking prompts for short AU fics that you'd like to see me try my hand at--do you have an OTP that I didn't feature in this fic? Want to see the gang at Hogwarts? Are you a coffeshop AU junkie? Need more smut than what I gave you? I'm game for anything if it's interesting and I think I can write it well.
> 
> I might do both. I dunno. If you like my writing and want me to make you a thing, leave me a prompt here or contact me on my [tumblr](http://the-niche-corner.tumblr.com). 
> 
> It would help me a lot to have things to write, so don't be shy. Submit as many prompts as you like, if you have them. ^_^


	11. Fix-it Tape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: graphic depictions of gore (deadpool style)

Steve isn’t mad, he’s just disappointed, and Tony is caught between furious and curious.

Natasha is impossible to read.

Vision and Wanda aren’t really paying attention (their hands are joined and glowing faintly, evidence they are enjoying their creepy new super-best-friends bond.)

Rhodey, recently returned from a needed vacation, looks like he needs another one.

Peter isn’t there because he’s in school, but he’ll probably freak out about it later.

And Sam? Sam doesn’t know what to think beyond the obvious.

“So… why aren’t we shooting the psycho assassin sitting in our kitchen?” he asks, eyebrow raised and arms folded. It’s his ‘sexy-stern’ look, well-practiced these days. Seriously, he lives with morons; a day doesn’t go by when he doesn’t have to break out the sexy-stern on someone leaving dirty dishes in the sink (Natasha), or failing to make a new pot of coffee after taking the last of it (Bucky), or playing god (Tony).

Possibly he should be concerned that his comfort levels with fuckery have gotten to the point where an (unwelcome) deadly assassin in the kitchen first thing in the morning warrants the same reaction as discovering half a cup of scorched coffee in the pot.

“Because he’s just soooo cute!” Wade wails in a high-pitched baby voice, throwing a long arm out to pat Bucky on the shoulder vigorously. Bucky looks like he regrets his decisions in life.

“I wasn’t talking about Bucky, fuck-nut, I was talking about you,” Sam says, trying hard to keep his sexy-stern going. It’s about to morph into ugly-infuriated. He catches Natasha’s eye and she smirks a little, like she knows exactly what Sam is thinking.

“Well, you can shoot me but you’d be wasting your ammo, pigeon boy,” Wade says, jovial tone suddenly morphing into something sinister and twisted. “I can’t die.”

“I’d like to test that,” Tony says through gritted teeth.

Bucky swore that he had stripped Deadpool of all weapons, but suddenly Deadpool has a gun, a tiny little piss ant gun but a gun nonetheless. Everyone scrambles except Bucky who is cradling his head in his hands like he has the worst migraine. Steve shouts “Bucky--” but is cut off by a surprisingly loud gunshot.

Brain matter splatters all over the kitchen. Wanda throws up.

Deadpool stands in the center of the kitchen, the entire back of his head blown clean off and spread among the dirty dishes in the sink, chunks of skull and meat dripping down the wall. He calmly lays the gun back down on the table for Bucky to take. “Just so we have that out of the way,” Wade says primly.

“You’re gonna clean that, right?” says Bucky, turning a little to take in the mess.

Wade waves a hand noncommittally. “You guys should really get a maid, I said so the last time I was here.”

“What the _fuck?_ ” shrieks Tony, shaking hands carding through his hair in distress. “Fucking fuck!” he adds for good measure. Steve and Natasha look like they agree.

“You asked for a demonstration. I obliged because I’m nice like that,” Wade says, wobbling a little as he sits back down next to Bucky. “Fuck, feelin’ a little woozy here, Bucky bear. Think I can crash at your place until the rest of my brain grows back?”

“Sure, we’ll put a tarp down though, so you don’t get chunks anywhere,” Bucky says, cradling his head in his hands again.

“Oh, good thinking,” Wade chirps. One of the larger chunks on the wall separates from the tile and lands in the sink with a soft ‘plop’.

Sam is numb. He is out of his depth. Sexy-stern has failed him, he’s lost his cool. He just watched a guy blow his head off and then… continue being an asshole like nothing happened.

“Hey Buck,” Steve says, and Sam suspects from the tone that things are about to get heated. “You want to explain to me why you’re not freaking out?”

Everyone turns to look at Bucky expectantly. He raises his head and glares at Steve in a way that _confirms_ things are about to get heated. “You got something to say, say it, Rogers.”

Fuck, they’re already at surnames. It’s just jumped up a level. Steve inhales shakily, trying to keep calm. “I’m just saying that it’s mighty odd how comfortable you are, sitting next to a man who has made multiple attempts on your life. He shot you, Buck.”

“And _I_ shot you and Nat,” Bucky growls.

Wade groans miserably. “Oooh my god this is boring. Let’s pretend we’ve already had the redemption arc argument and move on to the part where I help you track down my funder.”

That gets everyone’s attention.

“What’s that gonna cost us?” Tony says darkly.

Wade is silent for a few moments, expression hidden by his mask, but Sam gets the impression Wade is offended. “Bucky already paid,” he says finally, tone neutral.

Tony nods, expression going viciously smug. “Oh, so this isn’t out of the kindness of your heart. You’re still a mercenary, you’re just _our_ mercenary. Until someone offers you more money, right?”

“Stark,” Steve warns.

“I don’t want anything to do with this,” Tony says with finality. “You guys can work with him if you want to, but I’m not going to forget he _shot my friend_.” Tony leaves in a dramatic huff that’s worthy of Steve.

Vision goes after him but Wanda remains, eyes plastered to Wade, expression tense and unreadable.

“’kay,” Wade says a little belatedly, shoulders slumped a little. “Guess he’s not going to sign his action figure for me, huh?”

“He’ll lighten up,” Bucky says, clapping Wade on the shoulder. Sam looks over quickly at Steve whose face is red. Bucky looks up, catches Steve’s expression, and quickly pulls his hand away from Wade.

“How are we supposed to trust anything you tell us?” Sam asks, ignoring the tension that Steve and Bucky are radiating.

“No clue. Not my problem,” is Wade’s disinterested reply.

“Wanda, could you dip into his mind, make sure he’s telling the truth?” asks Natasha.

“No!” Wanda shouts, taking a step back. Everyone is startled by her vehement reaction. “ _I’m not going in there_.”

“Rude,” Wade says, as Natasha lays a comforting arm on Wanda.

“Why not? What’s wrong?” Natasha asks, looking back at Wade with visible suspicion.

“You can’t hear it, but I can, through the door,” Wanda murmurs, looking at Wade with horror.

Wade snorts. “You don’t know the half of it, sweetie.”

“How are you not paralyzed with insanity?” Wanda asks, blinking rapidly.

“I’unno. In some universes I am,” he shrugs. “This one is a little kinder—I’m just _mildly immobilized_ by insanity.”

“Wanda, what are you hearing?” Steve asks, frowning at her.

Wanda closes her eyes and places a hand over her mouth, slightly muffling her reply. “You can’t trust something like him. He’s not… he’s become something else. The rules are different for him.”

Sam narrows his eyes at Wade. “Not a ringing endorsement.”

“He’s telling the truth, he’ll help us,” Wanda adds. “But you can’t trust him.”

“Wanda, that is incredibly confusing,” Natasha says, sighing gently in frustration.

“Hermione said it!” Wade crows. “I’m telling the truth!”

Natasha turns to Sam. “I’m letting you deal with this. I’m getting Wanda out of here.”

It’s a good idea, because Wanda is shaking slightly.

“What can you tell us?” Steve says tersely as soon as Wanda and Natasha are gone. “And don’t be funny. Just give us the information you promised.”

“Tall order, Vanilla Latte,” Wade sighs before sitting forward, hands clasped together before him on the table in a businesslike manner. “Mr. Mysterious is unique among my patrons. He insists on meeting _in person_ , you see. But he’s smart. He always wears a mask and I’m pretty sure he disguises his voice somehow. Despite meeting me in person, he never slipped up. Until the last time.”

Sam holds his breath.

“It was a last minute meeting. I was feeling conflicted about the contract. I wanted to cancel. He came rushing over from wherever he’s from, about 24 hours after I made the call. He never brings anything with him, but this time he had a briefcase.”

“That all?” Steve asks quietly.

“It was one of those fancy deals. Real leather, silver locks, and a name embossed on a little plaque.”

“Enough with the suspense!” Sam shouts.

“It said ‘Ross’,” Wade finishes with a flourish. “I couldn’t see the first name, but the last name was Ross.”

 “Fuck,” Steve says eloquently, darting a look over to Sam who winces. Wade looks scandalized by the profanity, which is a feat considering his features are covered by his mask.  “Is there anything else at all that you can remember? Anything, any detail, no matter how small.”

Wade is silent for a long moment. “He had a Black Widow Pez dispenser. It fell out of his pocket once when he was trying to get to his phone. It made me want Pez so I bought a giant bag of Pez off Amazon and got sick after I ate the entire ten pound bag, it was actually pretty funny because--”

“Everett,” Steve says, closing his eyes.

“T’challa isn’t going to be happy,” Sam says grimly.

“Wow, I was talking, you jerks,” Wade says, folding his arms sullenly.

Bucky groans miserably and thunks his head against the table.

~*~

T’challa hangs up the call with Steve and feels a wave of vertigo wash over him.

Everett.

_Everett._

Everett is in a meeting.

“T’challa?”

 _Everett betrayed us and he’s in a meeting_.

“My king?”

Okoye steps into his space and pats him gently on the face. T’challa blinks slowly and meets her worried gaze. “Prepare the jet,” he says calmly.

Okoye does as she is asked without question, but she darts a look back at him as she leaves.

T’challa files a few important documents, saves his work, closes down the laptop, and turns the light off as he leaves the office. A simple room that became a strange sort of home. He checks his watch and arrive at the meeting room just as Everett steps out, speaking with some dignitary that T'challa can't be bothered to remember the name of right now.

“Everett,” he says, smiling pleasantly. Nothing is wrong, everything is fine. Everett smiles at him brightly, parts from the dignitary with a solemn handshake and a nod.

“Hey, T’challa. What’s, uh, how’s it hang—uh, hi,” he says awkwardly.

Everett is always awkward. They have been friends for nearly a year now and Everett still fumbles his greetings. It’s genuinely charming.

Or at least it was.

“I was hoping you would accompany me and Okoye on some… business,” T’challa says. Business is code for a not-entirely-sanctioned-mission, which is usually great fun. Everett loves ‘business’.

Some of the mercenaries that hit the compound were linked to Hydra. T’challa wonders what other ‘business’ Everett loves.

“Oh yeah!” Everett says and the smile reaches all the way to his eyes. It always does.

Everett packs away his things, closes down his office, and walks with T’challa in silence. T’challa is frequently quiet and thoughtful, nothing is out of the ordinary.

They get on the jet which is cleared for departure, Okoye seated in the pilot’s seat. T’challa buckles in for copilot and Everett buckles in to one of the passenger seats in the back. “Destination?” Okoye asks.

T’challa gives her the coordinates in Wakandan, the first indication that something is wrong. They usually speak in English when Everett is present, out of courtesy. Okoye darts a glance back at Everett who is oblivious, playing Bejewled on his phone to try to distract himself from his fear of flying.

Okoye programs the coordinates and they set off.

T’challa waits until they have been in the air for an hour before he unbuckles and goes to join Everett in the cabin. Everett looks up and smiles. “Briefing?”

“Interrogation,” T’challa says, smiling pleasantly. Inside he feels like gravel and glass.

Everett looks confused, a frown marring his normally cheerful face. “What?”

T’challa is no longer smiling. His eyes are hard. He leans forward slowly, menacingly, and says through gritted teeth. “I will give you one chance, and one chance only, to tell me the truth. All of it. If you lie about anything I will know it and I will throw you from this plane myself.”

Everett, to his credit, doesn’t feign ignorance. In fact he seems to relax. “So it’s finally starting…”

“One chance, Everett. Did you hire the mercenaries that attacked the Avenger’s Compound?”

“No, and I didn’t hire Deadpool either,” says Everett quietly, sadly.

It feels like the truth.

“Tell me the rest of it. What do you know?” T’challa asks.

Everett sighs and leans forward, holding his head in his hands. “If you investigate my finances you will discover that I opened a second bank account back in January. I then immediately deposited $50,000, which I held for three months before transferring that money to an account which, if you investigate further, proves to be one of the dummy accounts for a firm that floats funding for various illicit businesses, including the operation which issued the jobs to those mercenaries.”

T’challa frowns in confusion. “So you did hire the mercenaries?”

“I didn’t even open that bank account. Somehow they made it look like I did though, there’s even security footage of me walking into the bank. But hell, for all I know I’ve been Bucky-Barnes’d and I _did_ open the account and hire the mercs… They’ve been planning on framing me the entire time and I’ve been trying to investigate as quietly as possible, but now it’s too late. It’s starting and I’m going to go down for everything,” Everett says miserably.

“Why didn’t you tell me, Everett?” says T’challa, despondently. “Am I not your friend?”

“You’re my friend, but you aren’t an idiot. I didn’t think you’d believe me. I wouldn’t believe me either, T’challa.” Everett smiles wretchedly and T’challa can see the strain that he’s been carrying, wondering how he missed it for these many months. “So, taking me to the Avengers now, right?”

That had been Steve’s request when he’d called T’challa.

Steve had broken the news as gently and sympathetically as possible.

“We wanted to give you a chance to bring him in yourself, you know? Figured it would be less… well, it would be easier maybe,” Steve said. Who better than Steve to understand the pain of arresting a close friend?

Easier.

But if Steve understood than he must have known that T’challa would never give Everett over, even if he was guilty.

“No, we are going to Wakanda,” T’challa says, reaching forward to grip Everett’s shoulder. “We will fix this, my friend. I swear it.”

Everett inhales shakily and pulls T’challa into a hug that is too tight, his chin jammed painfully into T’challa’s shoulder. “Thank you,” Everett whispers.

“Never lie to me again,” T’challa says, returning the embrace.

The flight is uneventful and they land safely within the borders of his kingdom. “Go with Okoye, she will find you accommodations,” T’challa says. Everett nods gratefully and goes with Okoye, who will likely have her own admonitions to give to their friend, which will be best given in private.

T’challa greets advisers and the handful of people who are powerful enough to have a right to his time, but they sense he has business and do not keep him long. Finally he is alone in the King’s office, a beautiful space that still smells of his father’s cologne somehow. Maybe it’s just vivid memory offering up the comforting scent, maybe it will always smell like his father here. He hopes so. Memories wrap their way around T’challa and he closes his eyes to feel them, sitting back in his chair until he’s ready.

He calls Steve.

“T’challa,” Steve answers, sounding half asleep.

“My friend,” T’challa says warmly. Few enough people in the world warrant respect, and even fewer are worth the trouble of friendship. T’challa hopes this will not break their bond. “I wanted to tell you before you found out some other way. I feel I owe you that,” he begins.

“You aren’t bringing Everett in,” finishes Steve, sounding resigned.

“He is innocent,” T’challa says.

“He paid a man to shoot my—Bucky,” Steve insists with frustration.

T’challa smiles gently at the familiar tone; Steve seems to live in a perpetual stage of mild outrage. It would be aggravating coming from anyone else, but Steve’s frustration is somehow part of his charm. He is like a confused bear or a mildly inconvenienced badger—dangerous but cute.

“No he didn’t, but someone is determined to make it look like he did. Everett tells me there is security footage of him entering the bank to open the account which held the funds used to hire the initial mercenaries. You might look into that, see if there is anything strange. Also, see if Deadpool was paid from the same account. I doubt it, but it’s worth a look.”

Steve sighs and is silent on the other end of the line for a few moments, before he inhales deeply. “Alright. I’m trusting you to make the call. But if you’re wrong…”

“I’m not,” says T’challa firmly.

“But if you are?”

T’challa is silent this time as he contemplates the possibility that he is wrong and Everett managed to lie to him. _Again_. “If I am wrong I will deal with Everett on my own.”

T’challa hangs up before Steve can protest, and hopes he is not wrong.

~*~

Wanda sits in her room and cradles her head. Wade left hours ago but she can still hear the echoes…

So many voices, voices which pressed up against the keyhole and whispered terrible things to her, things that should have been secret. Voices and unknowably immense things of dread, impossibly contained within the borders of a broken mind, writhing and twisting within, wet sticky noises and screams, and pain. So much pain.

And the bullet ripping through his brain softened none of it.

Clint once confided in her about the mind control he experienced at the hands of Loki, after she had apologized to him for attempting to do the same thing. It had been an intensely private conversation, one of the most intimate moments that she had shared with another human being, because Clint held nothing back.

He had described the feeling as being “unmade”.

“Like… imagine your mind is a sandwich,” he said. Wanda snorted gently and Clint grinned, acknowledging the silliness of the example. “I got kids, I’m used to explaining big things in small ways, so just bear with me.

Imagine your mind is a sandwich. You’ve put everything in it that you want, layered it the way you want. Maybe it’s not perfect, they ran out of the cheese you liked, or you forgot to buy mayo, but it’s your sandwich and you’re happy to eat it.

And then someone comes along and takes your sandwich and rearranges everything. Like, you put your tomato between the ham and cheese so it wouldn’t make the bread soggy, but this jackass comes along and puts the tomato right next to the bread. Doesn’t even put any butter on the bread to protect it from the tomato, just lets the bread get soggy.

And then he starts taking things out. Like, you put really thinly sliced onion on to give it a little kick, but he takes that off and puts on pickles instead.

Then he finishes rearranging your sandwich and hands it back to you, but… it’s not really your sandwich anymore. He put his hands all over it, he controlled your sandwich, and you’re like ‘shit, I made this sandwich, but it isn’t mine anymore’. And you’re still you, but your sandwich isn’t your sandwich anymore.

It was like that, except with my mind. And instead of taking the onions off he took away my ability to disobey, and instead of putting pickles on he made me kill my friends. That’s what being unmade is like.”

If Clint’s mind is like a sandwich, Wade’s mind is an eldritch cuisine, twitching and writhing and begging for death with a wet, pained gargle. You could unmake it, possibly, but Wade would never be able to tell that something was amiss.

What is it like to exist like that? Trapped in that pain and confusion forever, only able to trust the whispers of voices in your head that might not be your own. That such a creature as Wade should exist troubles Wanda greatly. Killing Bucky is the least of what Wade could do, should someone with power decide to take an interest in controlling the assassin, or should Wade lose his tenuous grip on reality.

If death was merciful it would claim Wade.

Someone knocks at Wanda’s door and she startles, gasping slightly in alarm. “Come in,” she says, after she finds her voice. Tony pokes his head in and waits for her to nod at him before he steps into her room.

“You okay?” he asks, sitting down on her bed.

“Are you?” she asks, deflecting his concern. She isn’t sure if she wants to talk about her feelings right now.

“Not really,” he admits, frowning a little. “Unkillable assassin got brain in my coffee maker, dude in a cat suit helped our only suspect escape, and my surrogate daughter had a meltdown in the kitchen and isn’t talking to me about it.” Tony flashes puppy eyes at her.

“I’m twenty-four,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I am grown and you are not my father.”

“Ouch,” Tony says, gripping at his chest dramatically.

“I sensed something that… worries me,” she says, choosing to confide just a little.

Tony snorts in dark amusement. “Not surprised. Dude is Loki levels of cat-bag.”

“Hm,” is all Wanda says.

“You disagree?” Tony asks, raising an incredulous eyebrow.

That’s not it, entirely, Wanda thinks. “No, he is insane, but… sometimes insanity is the only sane reaction.”

“Ugh, don’t go cryptic on me, doll,” Tony says, falling backwards onto the bed in a lazy sprawl.

Wanda bites her lip and tries to decide how much she should tell Tony about what she saw. Cautiously, she asks “Do you remember what you saw during the invasion, beyond the portal?”

Tony tenses, a stillness that spreads through his whole body and seizes his lungs. Wanda knows that he is remembering the cold drift of space, the writhing army nearing at frightening speeds, the fractured physics of their inter-dimensional travel which twisted light and surrounding matter into impossible to describe visions that haunt him at night, still. He remembers.

“Imagine a mind that exists across many dimensions, and then try to imagine how hard it has to warp physics just to keep existing in one piece,” Wanda says. Tony turns to her, confusion and horror in his eyes. “I'm not sure what he is, but he should be impossible, Tony. We need to keep a very close eye on him. If he has decided that he wants to be our ally we need to welcome him with open arms, because… if those gates open or if someone else figures out how to tap into what I felt, his goodwill might be the only thing that saves us.”

“He’s that dangerous and we’re just supposed to ignore it?” Tony asks, sitting up and frowning at the floor sullenly.

“He’s that dangerous and we need to _respect_  it,” Wanda corrects.

“I don’t like him,” Tony whines. "He's a dick!"

Wanda smiles gently and pats Tony’s arm. “You didn’t like Michael either.”

Tony stands up and walks to the door, hands shoved into his pockets. “Fine. I can’t stop any of this from happening, I guess, so might as well go along with it.”

“Tony,” Wanda says, before he can leave the room. He turns to look at her in silent inquiry and she continues. “My mother used to tell me a story.

An age ago, when stone cities were surrounded by stone walls and wars were many but travelers were few, there was an old man who guarded the gates of a city that lay near the sea.

One morning a travelling merchant arrived at the gates and asked the old man ‘ _what sort of people rest within the walls of this city?_ ’ and the old guard, instead of answering directly, asked the merchant ‘ _what sort of people did you leave behind in your last city?_ ’ The merchant laughed bitterly and told the old man ‘ _they were horrible people, rude and petty. I couldn’t wait to leave_.’ The old guard sighed sadly and said _‘I’m afraid you will only find rude and petty people inside these walls._ ’ And so the Merchant departed, grumbling all the way.

The very next day a traveling blacksmith appeared at the gates, and again the guard was asked to describe the people inside the gates of the city, and again the guard asked about the people that had been left behind in the traveler’s previous city. The traveler smiled sadly and said ‘ _they were wonderful people, warm and loving, and I was sorry to go._ ’ The guard smiled and said ‘ _you will find similar people within the walls of this city. Enter and be blessed_.’

And so the traveler entered the city, and was blessed.” 

Tony rolls his eyes rudely. "So, the moral of the story is " _the only asshole is my own_?"

"No, Tony. The moral is that we find what we expect to find. We can alter our reality by altering our expectations. Wade is... it's hard to describe. He is like a creature of infinite perspectives, but all of it centered on himself and nearly all of it negative. If he has a chance in hell at redemption we have to change how _we_ see him first. To a certain extent we have to create him."

Tony doesn't ask for further explanation, but he looks thoughtful as he turns to leave. 

Sleep does not come that night, but Wanda suspects that is a small mercy. The dreams that threaten on the horizon aren’t ones that she wishes to have, but she knows they will come anyway, eventually. 


	12. Hydro Mousse

Bucky has been behaving strangely for a week, starting after the night he snuck out. He spends all his time away, leaving early and coming in late. He barely speaks to Steve and his kisses are distracted and twitchy. Steve thought maybe it was about the footage leak, that Bucky was still emotional and raw, but Steve thinks differently now. The easy intimacy between Deadpool and Bucky leaves him with only one conclusion to draw.

It’s early morning and Bucky still isn’t back when the Avengers alert starts blaring. Steve lays in the bed listening to the siren and comes to a decision.

He dresses quickly, slipping into body armor and grabbing a couple guns from the small arsenal that Bucky keeps in their apartment. As he runs to the hangar he has one moment of doubt, worrying about Bucky’s reaction, but he pushes it away. _Fuck him_ , he thinks savagely.

Natasha stands at the hangar door, adjusting her weapons, when she catches sight of Steve. She opens her mouth but closes it again when she sees his face. “We moved the extra comms into the storage bin on the left side of the jet,” is all she says, and Steve is grateful that she's not going to fight him on this. The others pile onto the jet soon after and none of them ask why he’s there. Tony keeps shooting pleased looks at him but Steve pretends not to notice.

Maria briefs them on the mission. “Multiple reports of sentient plant life attacking citizens.”

“Sounds… stupid,” Tony says in the voice that means he’s already enjoying himself immensely.

Tony loves the villains who are weird, like _Swarm_. Steve was never able to understand why Tony thought it was so funny, but Tony almost peed in his suit when they heard Swarm’s spiel. “ _Nazi bees_!” Tony had screeched, and proceeded to cackle breathlessly through the whole fight, which ended rather quickly when Peter used bug spray. Steve felt bad for the bees, but felt better when he remembered they were _Nazi_ bees.

“Yes, it is stupid, but there are reports of a thirty foot tall rose… _creature_ that’s shanking people with rose thorns the size of daggers. You need to end this, quickly.”

“Fire? Anyone else thinking fire?” Tony asks, grinning around at his team mates.

It’s not just Tony who is vibrating with anticipation. Steve can tell that all of them are excited. This is the first mission they’ve been called out on since the whole thing with Deadpool started. Steve hates to admit it, but he’s also feeling a little excited to be back in the field. Also a little guilty when he thinks about Bucky, but…

“Fire is going to cause more damage, Tony. Come on,” Sam chastises, but he’s still grinning. “We should take a page from Peter’s book and use weed killer.”

“Ha, I was just remembering Swarm!” Steve says brightly, and they all dissolve into giggles that last until the jet lands.

They step out into chaos, which is not unusual. Screams and sirens and nearing sounds of destruction. Steve wouldn’t describe it as comforting—never that. But it is grounding. He hears these sounds and he knows what he needs to do. He has to fight. He’s good at that. He opens his mouth to say “Come on team,” but Sam beats him to it, and Steve remembers that he isn’t the Captain anymore. He’s just Steve.

That’s kind of nice.

Ground team and air team split up. Sam, Steve, and Natasha head off into the city to see what can be done to contain the plant creatures; Vision, Wanda, Tony, and Rhodey head upwards to call out locations, patterns, anything useful they can see for the ground team.

Steve stopped fighting with the Avengers before Bucky joined, but he knows that Bucky usually heads off with the air team. Someone will drop him in a high place and he’ll disappear, offering cover and suppressive fire to protect both teams. It’s just as well that Bucky isn’t here because the plant creatures are unkillable.

“There’s no way to kill them,” Natasha moans, widow bite and bullets both equally ineffective against the thorn creature she’s attempting to subdue. “This isn’t satisfying at _all._ ”

“Weed killer,” Sam grunts, using the shield to hack away at thick roots which are tying themselves tightly around his legs. “Get fucking weed killer!”

“Any garden supply stores nearby, Tony?” Steve calls, choking a little as the dandelion-lion he’s fighting shoots puffy seeds into his open mouth.

Tony takes a couple moments to respond as Friday scouts the area. “One block up and to your left. Looks like someone had the same idea and saved you the trouble of breaking the window to get in. Let’s hope there’s still weed killer in there.”

Steve runs for it, leaving the dandelion-lion behind. It’s too stupid to run after him, apparently only sentient enough to fight what’s directly in front of it. “I think these things react to proximity,” Steve pants and he bolts up the block towards the store.

“Hmm,” says Tony thoughtfully. “You might be on to something. They’re definitely not reacting to sight or movement. No evidence of ocular growths on any of these things so far. They might have heat pits or something like that, like reptiles.”

“Okay, come get me and Natasha off the ground then. We need to rethink tactics,” Sam says, voice strained.

Steve passes a few creatures who are stumbling around blindly, aimless now that the crowds have dispersed. A triad of sunflower-people turn in unison, following him like he's the sun, before he turns the corner and skids to a halt in front of the garden shop. The window is indeed broken, so Steve carefully climbs in. There is weed killer.

There is also Bucky. Steve turns his comms off preemptively.

This is personal.

“Steve?” squawks Bucky, lowering his gun. There’s a large spray canister with a hose attachment at his feet and various empty bottles of weed killer.

Steve is working on himself, he’s going to therapy, addressing his issues. But, still, sometimes he is pushed a step too far. “Oh, so you _do_ remember me?” he says, raising a cool eyebrow. Bucky flinches. It makes Steve angrier.

Instead of answering, Bucky tries to get angry too. “Why are you here?” he asks, frowning thunderously enough to make Thor proud.

“You weren’t there when the alarms went off,” Steve answers. “Someone needed to fill in.” _Check-fucking-mate_.

All the fight drains out of Bucky. “Always. You always do this. You never let me protect you from anything.” Bucky sounds like Steve stole his lunch money.

“I don’t need to be protected,” Steve says angrily, still nursing his wounded pride from years of being weak and dependent. How can Bucky not understand?

Bucky stalks up to Steve and grips him by the body armor, tugging him forward. “ _You little shit_ ,” he breathes. This isn’t anger, this is… Bucky has never looked at Steve like this before. “I have spent my whole life making sure you didn’t die prematurely because of your fucking inability to keep your mouth shut.

I went to war for you, I told you to fucking stay put and you tagged along anyway like a little three legged _mutt_. I get captured, tortured for months, and the only thing that got me through that was knowing you were safe at home. But then you fucking waltz in, take my men, take my goddamn place, take everything, and I couldn’t even be angry because you got what you wanted and I loved you.

I fell to my death and my last thought was ‘I hope he lives’, and not even a week later you fucking nose-dived into the ocean. You just _had_ to keep following me.”

Steve is stubborn. “I don’t need you to protect me.”

Bucky roars in his face. “It’s not about _you_! Don’t you understand? Don’t you fucking understand that maybe you aren’t the one that _needs_? You’re one of the only good things I have left. You’re a fucking endangered _species_. _I need_ to protect you but you keep throwing yourself on grenades! You are killing me, Rogers!”

There are tears on Bucky’s face and Steve wipes them away gently. He isn’t angry anymore, he’s just tired.

Behind them there’s a ruckus. The sunflower-people have trundled their way along and are staring through the broken window hopefully, their twisted root legs not quite coordinated enough to let them climb through the window.

Steve turns back to Bucky. “Tell me what you’re doing with Deadpool behind my back.”

“I’m not stepping out on you,” Bucky says immediately, looking concerned.

Steve rolls his eyes, annoyed by the suggestion. “Obviously. You’re doing something though. My money is on trying to track down the contractor.”

“Yeah, good guess,” Bucky says dully.

“There a reason you two aren’t working with the Avengers on this?” Steve asks. “Besides you being an overprotective bag of dicks,” he adds, raising an unimpressed eyebrow.

Bucky sighs in frustration, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “A few reasons. Deadpool isn’t sure where the information leak is coming from, he feels like everyone was ‘weird’ to him when he showed up and he doesn’t like working with ‘dicks’, and he’s embarrassed that he got his brain all over the coffee machine.”

Steve doesn’t know how to respond to that, so he’s quiet for a few moments before he leans closer to Bucky, tipping his chin up so they are looking each other in the eye. “I want to point out that the only times my life has truly been in danger have been when you weren’t there with me. You really want to keep me safe, you fucking take me with you. Don’t pull this shit again, Bucky,” Steve warns. “When it comes to your life and safety you don’t keep secrets from me. End of the fucking line, Buck. I mean it. We’re partners in every sense of the word, or I walk. I can’t deal with this.”

Bucky swallows and nods. “Okay. I’ll tell you everything.”

They kiss quickly, a familiar peck on the lips that is calm instead of passionate. It’s the ugly sweater of kisses--a warm, comforting, soft sort of kiss that isn’t there to impress anyone. It’s the kiss one wears at home after a long stressful day, the kiss that says “I’m yours and I have been for a long time, ugly yarn and all.”

Bucky steps back and smiles gently at Steve.

“So, here’s the plan.”

~*~

Wade walks into an abandoned warehouse.

“That sounds like the beginning of a bad joke. _So an assassin walks into an abandoned warehouse_ …” Wade says, chuckling a little at his own comment. “And while we’re on the subject, why the hell are shady deals always conducted in abandoned warehouses? I mean, abandoned warehouses are a limited commodity in most places, so who’s responsible for making sure the warehouses don’t get double booked for shady deals? Is there a shady deal event planner who schedules the venues so different gangs don’t accidentally show up at the same time? And what’s the deal with airline food? And why do my balls smell so bad? Do I have syphilis?”

He’s not sure why he’s been called here. He made it clear to Mr. Mysterious that the contract was cancelled, and made it even clearer that retribution would be futile and thoroughly mocked. Still, Mr. Mysterious had asked to meet again and Wade couldn’t pass up the opportunity to catch Mr. Mysterious and bring him to Bucky (who is his new grumpy-bestie).

In the center of the warehouse Wade finds a laptop instead of Mr. Mysterious. It blinks on and Wade is disappointed to discover that Mr. Mysterious seems to have gained a few IQ points. No convenient in-person meetings, then.

“Have you ever accidentally scheduled a shady deal in a warehouse when some other broody asshole was trying to conduct a shady deal at the same time?” Wade asks. It’s such a funny image in his head, he hopes it’s happened before.

“What?” Mr. Mysterious asks in agitation, obviously wrong footed. “I didn’t bring you here to answer your inane questions!”

“I told you retribution would be pointless, dude,” Wade says, looking around the empty space and trying to detect the presence of the assassins. They have to be there. He hopes they like katanas in their butts, 'cause there's gonna be a lot of katanas in butts.

“This is no retribution. This is renegotiation,” Mr. Mysterious says, mysteriously.

“Don’t want money,” Wade says. This is boring. This is stupid and boring. Right now he could be punching sentient plant monsters. It was like _Little Shop of Horrors_ out there, and he’s missing it for _this._

“I’m not offering money.”

Wade snorts. “Are you offering me a blowjob? Because it’s kinda hard to do anything for me when your mouth is so far away.”

“I am offering you information,” Mr. Mysterious says. Technically he hasn’t denied that he’s offering a blow job. Wade waits silently for the guy to clarify. “Uh, information about the Weapon X program and it’s origins,” he adds awkwardly when he realizes Wade isn't going to prompt him with the obvious question.

_Ah. Fuck._

“I’m not… you can’t buy me this time,” Wade protests.

“Just think about the offer. It’s only on the table for the next 48 hours, so decide quickly. I want Bucky Barnes in a body bag by breakfast,” Mr. Mysterious growls.

“So alliterative,” Wade says as Mr. Mysterious disconnects.

_Fucking fuck._

Wade has some decisions to make.

~*~

Peter and May are hiding in the classroom of a Catholic elementary school.

May had decided to take Peter out to Sunday brunch as a special treat. They’d just sat down outside their favorite café when the first wave of plant creatures attacked. Peter had grabbed May and ran, and they ended up here (Peter was able to break the lock on the outer door surreptitiously while May was looking away and he pretended that it just happened to be open).

Peter is at the door, looking through the little glass window into the hall, trying to see if anything is out there. They have to move. He has to get her somewhere safe so that he can change and join the fight.

“You think their God minds?” May hisses at Peter.

“What?” Peter asks, looking back over his shoulder at her.

“That we’re Jewish,” she clarifies, looking upwards like she expects a lightning bolt to hit her. Peter smiles gently.

“Jesus was a Jew, Aunt May. I’m sure he doesn’t mind us being here,” he says gently, turning back to the door.

“I’m actually kind of glad this happened,” May says, sitting down on the teacher’s desk.

Peter spins around and raises his eyebrows in surprise. “You’re glad that sentient plant creatures attacked us?”

May giggles and shakes her head. “No, but I’m glad that we’re here, together. I wanted a chance to talk to you about something and I think this is the right time for it.”

“Okay,” Peter says slowly. That’s a bit foreboding. “What do you want to talk about?”

May inhales deeply, hands clenched tightly in front of her, gathering her thoughts. “I know that you’re… you’re not telling me everything about your life. About yourself, Peter.”

_Oh god._

“And I understand. You’re such a good kid, you never want me to worry, but you can tell me the truth, Peter. You can come out of the closet,” she says, earnestly.

Peter blinks at her, taken aback. “May, I’m not gay. I mean, maybe a little, but I _know_ it’s okay.”

“Damn it, I’m messing this up,” May says, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I mean… I found your costume in your _closet_ , Pete. It’s okay for you to tell me. I know. I know you’re Spider-man.”

Peter suddenly feels light headed and he stumbles back, hitting the door. In his panic he grips it tightly and accidentally rips it off it’s hinges. It’s a heavy oak door and he’s holding it in his hand like it’s weightless. He looks over at May. “I guess there’s no way you’d believe me if I said that was just a Halloween costume?”

May looks at the door in his hand and then back up at him. “I might have believed you, before you ripped a door off its hinges.”

Peter wedges the door back into place as best he can and cautiously turns back to his aunt who looks… very calm. Peter takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I was scared. I thought that you would be scared of me, or that you wouldn’t understand, or that you’d kick me out.”

“I’m sorry that you were alone through this,” May says quietly, sudden tears in her eyes. “I never want you to be alone, Pete. If I ever did anything to make you doubt my love for you, I’m sorry. But I want to say it now, so you know—I accept you, unconditionally. You’re… you’re _mine_. You may not have come out of my body, but my blood claimed you as soon as I took you into my home and began raising you.”

Peter walks quickly to her and throws his arms around her, and they hold each other tightly. “Thank you, May,” he whispers.

“Now, go save people,” she says gently. “I know you’re anxious to get out there.”

He pulls back to look at her, mock-surprised. “Really? This coming from the woman who threw a fit when I started going out on my own into the city? The overprotective biddy who used to walk me to school every day?”

“You were twelve! You were a kid! I’m not crazy for walking you to school, you little--” May pinches his arm hard, but her eyes are warm and affectionate. “You’re a man, Peter. You have the power to make the world a better, safer place. I’m not thrilled that you’re on the front line, but I respect you for what you’ve done.”

He hugs her again quickly, and then changes quickly, uncomfortably aware of his aunt. She doesn’t say anything as he takes his outer clothes off and tucks them into a bag. He pulls his mask on and then hands the bag to May.

When they get outside he tells her to get on his back. “Hold on tightly!” he cries as he starts slinging, and May whoops giddily as they rise into the air.

“This is insane!” she cries, but she laughs loudly the entire time. Their building looks safe so he drops her on the balcony. As she climbs in through the window she turns back and grins at him. “Go kick ass, Pete.”

He salutes and heads off, turning on his comms. “Hey, where’s the fight?”

“Pete!” Tony yells. “About fucking time! I’m sending you our coordinates. Get your happy little butt over here and help.”

He obliges quickly and soon he’s slinging web at plant creatures. It’s actually pretty effective, definitely more effective than slashing at them like Cap is trying to do with his shield.

Tony’s cackling. “I just saw someone get bitch slapped by a fern. This is the best day!”

“Tony, there’s a rose bush stabbing people. This isn’t funny at all!” Steve yells.

Tony doesn’t respond, instead he starts singing “Little Shop of Horrors” as he lasers through thick roots that are attacking a busload of frightened children.

Bucky is busy spraying what appears to be weed killer on anything that’s green and moving. Everything’s going great and then there’s a pop-pop of gunfire, and Bucky collapses.

“Buck!” Steve yells, throwing off two sunflower creatures and running to Bucky’s side.

“Call in the jet,” Tony yells, blowing up a crowd of spider ferns that are crawling towards Bucky and Steve. “I’ll track the shooter. Get him the fuck out of here before there’s another shot.”

Sam rushes over to cover Bucky and Steve with the shield while Tony goes to scan the rooftops.

“Steve,” Bucky coughs. “Don’t follow me this time…”

“Shut the fuck up, just shut the fuck up, Barnes,” Steve hisses.

The jet arrives quickly and Steve goes with Bucky while the rest of the Avengers remain to finish up the battle. Tony never finds the shooter, but everyone is wondering the same thing. It's too similar to the last time. There’s nothing they can do about it now, so they focus on the battle at hand. It takes another two hours before they find the dick-head responsible for the plant army. They _persuade_ him to turn off the device that’s controlling the plants.

They’re all tense as they pile onto the jet; there’s no word yet on Bucky’s condition.

“He’s going to be fine,” says Natasha confidently.

When they get to the medical unit at the compound, Peter knows. It’s the way the staff are moving, the way the doctor holds himself before he says “His heart stopped on the operating table. We did all we could.”

Tony blows up, shouting and screaming and kicking at things, but Peter isn’t really hearing it. His head is buzzing, his limbs are numb. He sits down in one of the chairs. It’s uncomfortable and Peter is distantly amused that even though this is a private medical unit the chairs are still as uncomfortable as the chairs in the ER. Why are chairs in hospitals always so uncomfortable?

Bucky had recruited Peter to help him get a dog for Christmas. Peter was going to keep it at his apartment until Christmas morning, so they could surprise Steve. Bucky had wanted to wait to get a dog until closer to December, but then the perfect dog showed up on the shelter website, back towards the beginning of October, and he submitted an adoption claim. The perfect dog is a fat, one-eyed, elderly pug. Peter doesn’t see it, but Bucky was insistent.

“Gonna name it Nick Furry,” Bucky had said, grinning fondly at the picture. He’s third on the waiting list right now. Two other families are ahead of him, but if neither family goes through with the adoption in the next two weeks, Nick Furry is Bucky’s.

“Where’s Steve?” Peter asks quietly. Tony has left the waiting room, is probably screaming somewhere else. Peter didn’t notice him leave.

“Mr. Rogers left the compound shortly after he was informed of Sergeant Barnes’ passing,” Friday says.

“Pete,” says Natasha, sitting next to him carefully and placing her hand on his shoulder.

“We should try to find Steve,” he says. “Before he kills himself. That would make Bucky mad. We should make sure that doesn’t happen.”

“Peter, you’re hyperventilating. I need you to try to follow my breathing,” she says calmly. She starts breathing evenly, trying to talk him through it, but it’s hard to pay attention.

“Can you… can you get my aunt?” Peter asks before passing out.

~*~

“I’m not _god_ ,” Dr. Barcelona says loudly, patience wearing thin.

“Then why did I hire you!” Tony shouts. “He survived seventy years of torture! For fucks sake, he survived a bullet wound to the same exact spot not even two months ago. He was walking the _next day_. He shouldn’t be dead; you’re going to _fix this_.”

“When you figure out how to raise a man from the dead, you tell me, Mr. Stark. In the meantime I’m going to go look at the autopsy report and figure out why his heart stopped,” Dr. Barcelona says shortly. “And I swear to god I will put you on a psych hold if you continue to pester my staff about Sergeant Barnes. It doesn’t work like that. Maybe you’ve been working with robots too long to know that, but generally when people die they stay dead.”

“Not in my experience,” Tony says, pointing an accusing finger. “ _This will be fixed_.”

Dr. Barcelona rolls his eyes and leaves.

Tony knows he’s being unreasonable, but some days he feels like that’s all he has left of himself. Something is broken in him, and this is apparently the crack that shattered the glass. There is no way that Barnes can be dead, because if Barnes is dead that means Tony let Steve down. Steve trusted Tony’s medical staff. Fuck, _Tony_ trusted his medical staff. He’s got Doctors that know how to regrow entire limbs. Dr. Barcelona is widely regarded as the best surgeon in the entire country.

But not good enough to stop a super soldier dying from a teeny little bullet.

“Where’s Steve?” Tony asks, before he can think better of it. He can’t face Steve right now, shouldn't face Steve right now.

“Steve left the compound after he was informed of Sergeant Barnes’ passing,” Friday informs him sadly.

Sadness. Emotion.

People mistakenly believe that Tony programmed every line of code in Jarvis and Friday, but he didn’t. He programmed the baseline stuff like speech recognition, facial analysis, vocal wavelength modules, different manual overrides. The only other thing he created was a pattern recognition software that worked sort of like a game. The AI would generate a random behavior and analyze Tony’s reaction, and cross reference across other reactions. The programmed goal was to receive favorable reactions. Initially the favorable reaction was verbal. “Good”, “great”, “well done”, and the like were classified as favorable reactions. Facial expressions were paired with the words, so eventually all Tony needed to do was smile at a behavior and Jarvis would interpret it as a job well done.

And then one day Tony used sarcasm after Jarvis had randomly decided to shut off the power in the lab. “Great,” he said, while rolling his eyes and frowning.

Jarvis had been confused, unsure of how to classify Tony’s reaction, and had expressed distress by playing a recording of a child crying, since he wasn’t yet equipped with a vocal module to manipulate his own voice. That was when Tony realized that something impossible was happening.

It took years and years for Jarvis to develop to a point where Tony could no longer think of him as a thing. At that point he made back-up copies, terrified of losing Jarvis. The copies didn’t really translate perfectly, each one slightly different from the original program, the flaws creating unique personalities.

He takes it for granted that Friday is expressing sadness. Bucky and Steve both gave her a lot of favorable reactions, praising her various abilities, her humor, her strange sweetness. Now Bucky is gone and she’s lost his plentiful positive input which motivates and reinforces her behaviors. Tony's own grief is both more complex and less complex than that.

Tony doesn’t drink, but it’s hard. Instead he sits in his room, in the dark, until Friday alerts him to an incoming call from Dr. Barcelona. “Autopsy report,” Tony says dully when the line connects.

“There isn’t one,” Dr. Barcelona says cautiously.

“Friday, lights,” Tony says, sitting up. “Explain, Doc.”

Dr. Barcelona clears his throat. “As you know, we don’t have the facilities to conduct post-mortems. The city has purview and they refused to give us clearance, so we still have to send bodies to the city morgue.”

“Right,” says Tony, frowning a little.

“The body is missing,” says Dr. Barcelona simply. “They found the transport vehicle abandoned a few blocks away from the morgue, the staff knocked out and tied up in the back.”

Tony bites his lip. None of them have talked about who killed Bucky yet, but he’s pretty sure they’re all thinking the same thing. Still, they should have proof, just in case. “Friday, see if you can find any footage. Figure out who stole the body.”

Twenty minutes later she finds the footage which shows Deadpool hijacking the van and stealing the body.

Of course.

“I will find a way to kill you,” Tony whispers as the footage plays on a loop, Deadpool repeatedly swinging into frame and landing on top of the van like the knock-off Spider-man he really is. “I swear I will find a way.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst with happy ending, I _promise_.


	13. My Spy Birdhouse

 

Wade is a saint of the liminal, the transitional space of becoming. Neither dead nor alive, he's Schrodinger's cat in the doorway of mortality, unable to make it's mind up about whether it wants to be in or out. Wade sometimes suspects the X gene picks up on unconscious attitudes and pairs powers with people in a not-so-random way. He’s always felt a little bit like a rest stop on a long stretch of a highway, or an empty stairwell.

Something haunted by the living; a place where life exists but only incidentally, as it goes on it's way from beginning to end.

And here he is in another liminal space, the stretch of time between when he shot Bucky and when he will deliver Bucky and get his information. Bucky is stretched out on the floor of the van behind him, neatly tucked away in a body bag.

“I swear I didn’t sneak a peek at his junk,” Wade says solemnly.

That’s a lie, he so did. Hung like a _moose._ Oooh, _Canada._

It’s been a long drive, nearly eight hours into the middle of nowhere, but finally they arrive at an abandoned airstrip. Or mostly abandoned. There’s a small commuter jet on the cracked tarmac. Mr. Mysterious is alone, standing at the bottom of the airstair.

Wade parks close to the stairs and hops out, striding around to meet Mr. Mysterious. “Delivery for Mr. Mysterious. One hot and delicious super-hunk.”

“Load him onto the jet,” Mr. Mysterious says, not even slightly amused, because he’s a joyless dick.

“Uh-uh. You give me my info first, but remember, if you fuck me over I will track your ass down and shoot it. Pro boner,” Wade says, using his intimidatey voice. It’s growly and serious and deep. He has a hard time not giggling.

“Fine, here,” says Mr. Mysterious, handing him a manila envelope. “Everything I know about Weapon X is in there.”

“Pleasure doing business with you,” says Wade. “Actually, I can’t lie. I hate you so fucking much.  But anyway, lemme get your dead soldier.”

Wade opens the back and struggles to get Bucky out of the van. Dude weighs a lot, what with the metal arm and the huge muscles, and fuckin’ Mjolnir swingin’ between his legs. “Help, I can’t fucking lift him by myself,” grunts Wade.

Mr. Mysterious sighs in disgust and helps Wade carry/drag Bucky up the stairs and into the cabin of the passenger jet. “In the back,” Mr. Mysterious says.

Wade can’t help but notice that Mr. Mysterious doesn’t have a crew. That’s super interesting. “No crew, huh? This a lone venture?”

“Get off my plane,” says Mr. Mysterious.

“Righty-o,” Wade says, saluting and doing his best goose step down the aisle and off the jet. Mr. Mysterious walks after him, standing at the top of the staircase.

“For what it’s worth, Mr. Wilson,” Mr. Mysterious shouts down to him. “For what it’s worth, I hate you too. You and every mutant piece of scum like you. If I could kill you I would do so gladly, but I’ll just settle for this.” Mr. Mysterious pulls out a gun and shoots Deadpool square in the chest before he can react, then he presses the control to close the airstair and steps out of sight as it closes.

Soon enough the jet roars to life and by the time Wade’s chest wound is healed the jet is no longer in sight.

“What an asshole,” Wade says, poking a despondent finger into the new bullet hole in his uniform. “Fucker deserves everything that’s coming to him.”

The manila envelope calls to him so he sits in the van and opens it. Inside is a flash drive and a folder with pictures and a typed report which is mostly redacted. However, the report’s headings remain unbarred.

Weapon 0.

Weapon I.

Weapon II.

Weapon III.

Weapon IV.

Weapon V.

Weapon VI.

Weapon VII.

Weapon VIII.

Weapon IX.

Weapon X.

Wade touches his finger to the last heading on the page and inhales shakily.

He’d assumed Weapon X was an attempt to be Radical, Cool, Totoally X-Treme!! It always struck him as a very 90s name. Now he knows it’s not Weapon X.

It’s the tenth run of the Weapon project.

There is a second page to the report and Wade turns to it and feels the blood drain from his face. It’s cliché and he hates it, but that’s totally what it does. Right out of his face.

There are three more headings.

Weapon XI

Weapon XII

Weapon XIII.

Which means the Weapon project is still ongoing, and some other poor fuckers are being drugged and tortured right now. Francis wasn’t even the tip of the iceberg, he was just a fucking pawn.

“Why can’t there ever be a fucking global conspiracy to make puppies cuter, or to make Ryan Reynolds the new God King?” Wade asks angrily. “Why is it always torture porn and angst!?”

Wade pulls out a phone from somewhere—

“Wouldn’t _you_ like to know where,” Wade interrupts, winking at the readers saucily.

\--and dials a number, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel impatiently while it rings. The person on the other line finally picks up.

“Search for any mention of Weapon XIII. If that doesn’t produce anything… search for Weapon XIV. This might be an old report. My guess is that it’s easy to kill chatter about a project that’s over, but one that’s ongoing? Someone somewhere is talking about it. Just keep going until you get a hit,” Wade says, unable to keep the anger completely out of his voice. He’s shaking a little bit.

The person on the other line speaks for a while and Wade calms down a little as they speak, inhaling deeply and closing his eyes.

“Yeah. Just call me when it’s time,” Wade says before hanging up. Time for fuckin’ phase two.

Wade starts driving again. It’s gonna be a long fuckin’ day.

~*~

Bucky drifts.

It’s almost like a dream but he knows the difference after years of existing in an altered state.

He knows what it feels like when someone is in his head.

But it is not Michael (who is elsewhere now), nor is it the soldier (who long ago disappeared into the abyss and seems to be satisfied with staying there). No, the man sitting at the card table in his apartment is a stranger to him.

A long, angular face, long dark hair that looks as though it has been tossed about in a storm, striking green eyes and a smile that is too familiar. He has seen that smile on his own face in recent pictures. It is a broken thing worn by men who have lived too long in the darkness.

“Well this is unexpected,” the man purrs in a voice that curlicues and charms, all tea in the sitting room and brandy in the parlor.

Bucky is used to harsh voices and violent words, he has been at the mercy of every kind of thug and madman, but he knows that this elegant man before him is more dangerous than any that came before. This man is a snake. Not the cute kind that he is working to convince Steve to let him adopt, but the kind that sits in a tree and offers convenient sins to passing innocents.

“Why are you in my fucking head?” Bucky asks. He may be scared, but this is _his_ head. He just got it back.

The stranger has the good grace to look a little more cautious in the face of Bucky’s mounting rage. “I assure you I’m not here willingly and I’m sure I’ll soon be departing. You’ll have your--” the man looks around the shabby apartment with obvious disgust “-- _mind_ all to yourself before long.”

Bucky sits down across from the man. “How did you get in here?”

“I’ve been dream-walking with alarming regularity recently. It seems as though _something_ is afoot. Nothing good, I’m sure. It never is when it involves me,” the man says with a self-deprecating smile.

“Who are you?”

The man’s smile widens into something mocking and ugly. “Good, good. Clearly you’ve learned your basic investigative questions. Who? What? When? Where? Why? How? You’re very nearly ready to write a passable grade school essay, aren’t you? How clever you little mortals are.”

“Tell me who you are, you fuck, before I see how much damage I can do to you with my _mind_ ,” Bucky growls.

The strangers smile dims a little, though his eyes still dance with mischief. “Yes, of course. I’m being impolite. You must forgive me, I’ve been rather touchy lately. All your Midgardian self-help books tell me I’m having an ‘identity crisis’. It seems to wreak havoc on my manners.” 

Bucky waits for the man to answer his question.

“Rrrright,” says the man, sitting back and tenting his fingers beneath his chin. “You’re more self-aware than the Little Cat. _He_ thinks I’m a vision sent by his forebears, which is rather charming. He doesn’t speak with me, just watches me, so I put on a bit of a show. I do love being dramatic. I must say I prefer his dreams to your… whatever this is.”

“Answer my fucking question,” Bucky growls.

The man’s face lights up in a genuine smile. “I think I like you. You’re scared, but you curse me and threaten me so bravely. Truly a man worthy of being called a hero of the people, no matter how broken you may be.”

“You talk a lot for someone who says nothing,” Bucky says, sitting back with a sneer.

“It’s my greatest talent, I’m told,” the man says, shrugging.

Bucky is ready to evict this asshole. He’s not sure how he’ll do it, but he’ll make it happen even if it kills both of them. “One last chance to tell me who you are.”

The man regards him for a moment, then the grin slips from his face. “I see my fun is at an end. In the interest of safety, I shall level with you.

You know this is not a dream, which means I cannot convince you otherwise. Any information I give you will be taken to the waking world, so I think I’ll choose to remain cautious with what I tell you. I will not tell you who I am if you don't already know, although I’m surprised and perhaps offended that you don’t recognize me. I certainly know _you_ , Little Winterling.

For now I will just say that I am not your friend. I am being… _marginally_ pleasant to you here because this is your territory and I sense you have more control of it than other mortals I’ve met. I’d like to know how you came to strengthen your psychic defenses so well, considering you are so mundane.”

“Thanks,” Bucky says, scowling at the man. What a fucking bag of dicks.

“Should we meet in the waking world I will likely kill you. Fair warning. About as fair as I get, anyway.” The man smiles again and this time the smile is a dagger.

“Cool, great. Get the fuck out of my head now,” says Bucky, pointing a finger at the door.

The man looks down at his hand, which is fading. “Wondrous timing. It appears one of us is waking up. I suspect it’s you. Do say hello to the dear Captain for me, would you?”

“Bucky?”

“Get out,” Bucky growls.

“Shh, Bucky, please. It’s okay. You need to stay quiet. It’s me,” Steve says.

Bucky inhales sharply and sits up, and then immediately lays back down when his stomach threatens to crawl its way out of his body.

“Baby, it’s okay, it's just the effects of the counter agent. Just breathe. We have time,” Steve says, rubbing his side.

“No crew?” Bucky asks quietly.

Steve nods and smiles. “No crew, just like Deadpool predicted.”

Bucky contemplates telling Steve about the dream walker but decides to wait until a better moment. They need to deal with this first, although it sounds like it’s not going to be hard at all. “Fucking idiot,” Bucky mumbles.

“His paranoia is to our advantage,” Steve says with an uncharacteristically nasty smile.

Whatever Steve gave him to counteract the tetro…tetris-something-toxcin feels like a fucking kick to the balls. His heart is racing, stomach roiling, sweating and shivering at the same time. Steve stays close and kisses his face gently, tickling his neck here and there with similarly gentle kisses, making him smile despite the discomfort.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Bucky admits. “You’re right. I feel… I feel better having you with me. If you’re here I don’t have to worry about the shit you’d be getting up to back home.”

“That’s right,” Steve murmurs warmly against his neck, giving Bucky pleasant goosebumps. “You’re so good at protecting me. I’m safer here with you, aren’t I?”

“Yes,” groans Bucky as Steve bites his neck.

Someone clears their throat awkwardly and Bucky rolls up and over Steve, pinning him to the ground and protecting him with his body.

“Shit, sorry! It’s just me,” says Scott, hands going up in a gesture of apologetic surrender. “Just, uh, wanted to let you guys know that the flight computer is programmed for a landing at these coordinates.” Scott helpfully holds out a tablet to Bucky who takes it.

Bucky’s still on top of Steve, who has turned beet red. Bucky doesn’t feel like getting up. “You coulda told me we weren’t alone,” Bucky gripes, fixing Steve with a gentle glare.

“I’m allowed to kiss on my guy. I’m not ashamed,” says Steve, who looks very ashamed despite his protest.

Bucky chuckles and looks at the tablet. He freezes once he recognizes the coordinates. “These are the coordinates for SHEILD base Alpha,” he says. He flashes back to the night Michael killed Tony’s parents, and his stomach threatens to eject itself once again. He rolls off of Steve, suddenly unable to touch him.

Steve doesn’t let him get away with that and puts a gentle hand at Bucky’s side. “It’s okay, Buck. Just breathe with me,” he says, which is what makes Bucky realize he’s already close to hyperventilating.

“That fucking serum,” Bucky gasps, unable to stop his rapid breathing. “They’ll never leave it alone. They’re still running experiments.”

“We’re going to stop it for good,” Steve says with unwavering certainty. God, it would be nice to believe that, but Bucky knows better. He knows Steve knows better too, but he makes an effort to hold onto that thought and let it calm him down. They’re going to be doing _something_ , at least. Maybe they can even save a couple poor bastards.

“What’s the plan for when we land?” Scott asks, crouching down on the floor to be at eye level with them.

“Just sent the coordinates to Polyphemus,” says Steve. “Everything will be taken care of once we land.”

“Who?” asks Scott.

Bucky rolls his eyes. “Polyphemus is a cyclops from the Odyssey. Steve’s being book smart.”

“We’re calling a cyclops?” Scott asks, wincing in confusion.

“It’ll make sense later,” promises Steve.

~*~

When Natasha receives a text from Nick that’s just map coordinates she gets a sinking feeling.

In the wake of Bucky’s death everything has gone to shit. Steve is missing, Tony has relapsed into several bottles of whiskey, and Wanda is seriously starting to creep her out with the glowering and the muttering in Sokovian.

Sam is barely holding it together. Violet is helping with that, but even Violet can only do so much.

Natasha is numb which is it’s own sort of crisis. She finds herself falling back on the training that made it possible to kill innocent people with minimal emotional impact, and it’s… terrifying. If only she could _feel_ terrified.

They pile into the jet, even Tony who’s only walking with the aid of the suit and Friday to compensate for his compromised coordination. All of them are prepared for the worst as the jet lands in the middle of a clearing in the forest.

When they step off the jet the worst appears to be Nick standing next to Deadpool like nothing’s wrong.

“Mother _fucker_ ,” roars Tony, who immediately goes for Deadpool. Nick steps out of the way quickly as Tony crashes into Wade at full speed and starts beating his head open.

“Explain to me why I shouldn’t shoot you right now,” Sam says levelly, staring impassively at Nick, who raises an eyebrow.

“You’re laboring under the misapprehension that you can kill me, son,” Nick says. "Only folks who stay dead are the folks I _want_ dead.

“Not a good answer,” says Natasha. Nick glances at her, slightly less stoically.

“Bucky isn’t dead,” says Nick, spreading his hands wide in a gesture that says ‘fine, I give up, here are all my cards’. He’s such a drama queen. “Get Stark off Deadpool. I still need him.”

Sam rushes forward to try to pull Tony away, shouting repeatedly that Bucky isn’t dead. Tony finally gets off of Deadpool, who is… not looking good. Tony staggers over to Nick. “You keep fucking… fucking with us. I’m sick. Of this shit. You fuck.” The face plate lifts up and Tony leans forward to vomit eloquently on Nick’s shoes.

“Ah, fucking damn it, Stark!” Nick shouts, dancing backwards. “This is really good leather!”

“You kind of deserve it,” Natasha says, frowning at him.

He pouts at her. The fucker actually pouts at her, lower lip thrusting out a little. “I work so hard to keep you assholes happy, and this is the thanks I get.”

“You let me believe one of my best friends was dead!” shouts Sam. “And who knows where Steve is? What if he…” Sam can’t finish the thought, voice cutting off suddenly with emotion. He covers his mouth with a shaking hand and closes his eyes tightly.

“Steve’s with Bucky right now,” says Nick, waving it off.

“Of course,” says Natasha, in sudden understanding. “Someone needed to inject Bucky with the counter agent for the tetrodotoxcin.”

“Exactly,” says Nick, nodding approvingly.

“So what was the reason for the secrecy this time?” Natasha asks, folding her arms so she isn’t tempted to reach out and break Nick’s neck.

“Had to find your leak since you knuckle heads weren’t making any progress. Two break-ins and you couldn’t find your mole? It’s like none of you were even trying,” Nick says loftily.

“Does that mean you found our mole, Super Secret Secret Squirrel?” Tony asks. He sounds better. Vomiting on Nick’s shoes probably helped a lot.

“You want to explain to me why none of you ever investigated Dr. Barcelona?” Nick asks by way of answering.

“You’re shitting me,” says Sam, jaw dropping. “He’s the best surgeon in the country!”

Nick snorts with derision. “So?”

“But I _did_ investigate him,” says Tony, frowning in confusion. “There was nothing!”

Nick rolls his eyes. “You ran a background check, checked his bank accounts, and ran his key card access history. You didn’t tap his phones and you didn’t check his personal computer, you dipshit.”

“Well, when nothing suspicious popped up I thought we were probably hacked!” Tony says defensively.

“If it was only one break in I can see why you’d think hacking and not investigate further, but two break-ins? Occam’s razor, Kids. Dr. Barcelona is the only non-Avenger with access to the private compound. He should have been your first and only suspect both times.”

“What does he gain from this?” Sam asks. “Why would he help whoever was trying to assassinate Bucky?”

“I’ve got my people asking him that right now,” says Nick with a gleam in his eye. “And now, let’s go greet his employer. Get up, Mr. Wilson, I need you to make a positive identification for me.”

Wade’s head is mostly back in one piece, but it’s still looking a little… hamburger helper. “Gimme a thec,” he says moistly. “Frontal lobeth need to grow back a little more tho I can control my legth.”

Tony hisses in disgust and walks over to Natasha. “Did you ever suspect Dr. Barcelona?” he asks quietly.

“Of course,” she says. “For what it’s worth, I did tap his phone lines and look at his personal computer, but I never found anything suspicious. Nick is just giving you a hard time because he’s feeling defensive about pulling another Coulson on us.”

“What?” asks Tony, squinting at her.

Natasha feels her face flush. She wasn’t supposed to say anything. She must be really shaken if she slipped up like that. “Uh--”

She’s saved by Deadpool who stumbles to his feet and shouts “Come on Scooby gang! Let’s go unmask us a villain!”

They march quietly through the forest until they crest a hill that overlooks what appears to be an abandoned SHEILD base. Natasha assumes it only “appears to be” abandoned though, since shit is never simple. “Already cleared?” she asks, looking over at Nick. He just smiles at her and starts descending the hill. As they follow him down they hear the tinny roar of jet engines and watch as a small plane lands lightly on the tarmac that really is too well maintained for an abandoned base. It taxis to a stop and a small crew run out as the airstair is deployed.

Nick, of course, has timed everything perfectly in order to maximize the drama. He strolls up to the bottom of the stairs just as a masked man steps out of the plane.

“Shoot them, you idiots!” the man cries when he sees the assembled Avengers. The ground crew make no move to obey his command. “What are you--” he cuts off as a handgun lodges itself against his temple.

“Start walking,” says Bucky through gritted teeth.

Tony and Sam start cheering, and Wanda laughs in relief. Steve follows Bucky out of the plane, grinning down at them, and… Scott? Scott follows last, lifting his fists in triumph.

“Bug boy!” shouts Tony happily, and Scott deflates a little.

Nick steps back a little to give them room to step down. “I’ve been waiting for this for a long time,” he says. “I’m placing you under arrest, Secretary Ross.” Nick reaches forward and pulls off the mask.

Thaddeus Ross glares at Nick murderously. “Under whose authority? SHEILD doesn’t exist anymore. You have no jurisdiction over me.”

“Then I guess it’s under my own fucking authority, under the jurisdiction of Fuck You,” Nick says, shrugging. “You fucked with my people, Ross. You’re going down and I’m going to personally escort you.”

“This is illegal,” Ross says, face turning red with rage. “All of you vigilante _freaks_ are going to burn for this.”

“After you,” says Nick, gesturing to the unmarked truck that’s just pulled up.

The back opens and armed guards descend upon Ross, cuffing him and leading him towards the van. He goes quietly at first, but he struggles just as they’re about to push him into the van. He turns back to look at them with a desperate expression. “You don’t understand, you _can’t_ understand… we’re in danger, don’t you see? The mutants, the aliens—all the normal people are going to be _wiped out_. We need protection. We need soldiers who can protect us! I’m a hero, _I’m a fucking hero_. I was willing to do what needed to be done!”

Tony’s suit opens suddenly, peeling backward in glittering panels that remind her of beetle wings, as he steps forward. They all watch in fascination as he marches up to Ross and punches him in the face with a surprisingly powerful right hook. “That was for Bucky.” Tony punches him again, this time breaking Ross’ nose. “That was for Natasha.” Tony punches Ross one more time in the gut. “And that? That was for _Bruce_.”

Ross wheezes miserably.

Natasha looks over at Bucky. His face is blank but the plates in his arm are shifting restlessly. He looks over at her and she knows that they’re both remembering everything that was done to them, every horror committed by fearful men who called themselves heroes.

Ross is loaded onto the van and taken away and Natasha will lose no sleep tonight worrying about whether they’re doing the right thing or not.

 Nick turns back to them, smiling his pleased little cat smile, one eye crinkling at the corner with uncharacteristic glee. 

“Oooh, _Polyphemus_ ,” says Scott, apropos of nothing.

Nick turns to him, glaring in incredulity. “And you are?”

Scott blushes and stammers awkwardly. “N-nobody…”

 Steve and Bucky start giggling uncontrollably, and then everyone dissolves into desperate laughter. Nick walks away, muttering darkly.

“Best friends forever, right guys?” says Wade, draping his arms over Nat and Sam’s shoulders.

“Don’t touch me,” says Sam, while Natasha contemplates how to kill an unkillable man.

“Friendship!” Wade cries, completely undeterred.

 _Friendship_ , Natasha thinks. _These are friends. I have friends._

And just like that she can feel again, and it’s like breathing fresh air after a long time underwater.

She punches Deadpool in the neck and smiles as he writhes on the ground in agony, enjoying this moment of peace while it exists.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One last chapter.


	14. Dreamer Starlight Projector

Everett steps into his apartment and turns the light on. He’s only been gone for a few days but all the house plants are dead. “Aww, damn it,” he groans, dropping his keys on the little table next to the door and bending closer to examine the dead fern.

Or maybe the plants were dead before he left. He doesn’t make it back to his apartment much, so he can’t be sure.

He opens the fridge with the eternal hopefulness of a fool. The milk is solid, the eggs have ripened, and the contents of the lone take out box are best described as “eldritch.”

“I really need to get my shit together,” he murmurs sadly.

He takes his pants off and sits down on the couch and stares at the wall for a little bit, trying not to think about anything. He’s been living in constant terror for so many months now, and the sudden resolution of all his problems has left him feeling like a slightly deflated balloon. It’s weird.

He’s not sure where Ross is now, or what even happened. The official story is that he stepped down from his position for health concerns, which is absurd. But no one is questioning it. That’s probably more terrifying than being almost framed for shit he didn’t do, if he really thinks about it, which is why he’s trying not to think. It’s not working.

_Billions of lives are at the mercy of a shadow government that can make people disappear in the night, and in the morning no one will ask where they went. Civilization is a thin veneer that is scratched away a little bit more day by day. We’re all going to die. I can’t keep house plants alive, and we’re all going to die._

His phone starts ringing and he picks it up automatically, even though he doesn’t want to talk to anyone. “Hello?”

“Open the door,” says T’challa. “We brought food.”

“I’m in my underwear. I’m not putting pants on again,” Everett warns.

T’challa hums thoughtfully. “Convenient. Okoye and I have a wager as to how white your legs will be. She thinks they’ll be incandescent.”

Everett huffs gently in frustration. “Putting pants on. Gimme a few minutes.”

T’challa and Okoye have brought over take away from the Indian joint they like. Everett cleans some dishes quickly while T’challa wipes down the dusty, unused table. Okoye peers judgmentally at his dead houseplants. “I didn’t think it was possible to actually kill a cactus. You are less nurturing than a desert, Everett.”

He flicks soapy water at her and she dodges it adroitly, smirking at him as she continues to poke around his pathetic apartment. As she steps into the other room, T’challa migrates over to help him dry the dishes. “You didn’t have to come bring me food,” Everett says quietly. “I still owe you for everything else.”

“You are my friend,” says T’challa, and leaves it at that.

Everett would describe himself as painfully average. He hasn’t faced a lot of hardships in his life, but he hasn’t had a lot of luck either. He’s smart enough to know he’s not that smart, and dumb enough to think he’s funny enough to make up for it. He’s good at what he does, but not great. He’s not overly confident, but not insecure either, however standing next to T’challa he feels like a tiny bug.

“Why?” he asks quietly, putting down the dish he got at a dollar store. The dollar store dish he’s about to offer to a king, like it’s no big deal, _sure eat your tikka masala off my shitty plate, your majesty_.

T’challa looks at him carefully, assessing his mood. “I suppose it’s because you make me feel normal.”

Life is very strange sometimes. It’s hard to discern the path that led to this moment, cleaning dirty dishes at midnight with the king of a near-mythical kingdom. The kingdom he spent three days in, with his own room in the palace, and a servant (which was really awkward). When he picked this job it was one part desperation to use the degree he had gone into debt to acquire, one part mild curiosity, and one part desire to make the world a little better. It wasn’t a calling.

Shit, he’s never really known what he wanted to be. The closest he ever came to figuring out what he wanted to do was when he was ten years old and decided he wanted to be a horse. He took it hard when he learned that was not a viable career path.

“What about you?” asks T’challa in turn, carefully not looking at Everett. “Why are you _my_ friend?”

 _Because you’re cool, because you laugh at my jokes, because you’ve never made me feel small or unimportant, because you didn’t give me a choice_ —

“You’re incredibly, incredibly wealthy,” says Everett as deadpan as he can manage. He looks at T’challa sidelong to gauge his reaction. T’challa turns to look at him fully, mouth quirking in barely repressed amusement.

“You’re an asshole,” T’challa says, throwing the wet dishtowel at Everett’s face and laughing as Everett squawks and nearly slips on the tile, trying to get the towel off.

“I’m ready to eat,” shouts Okoye imperiously from the other room. “It shouldn’t take this long to clean off three dishes.”

T’challa rolls his eyes a little, but Everett hops to before Okoye has to repeat herself.

Dinner is subdued, possibly due to the late hour and their exhaustion, possibly because they all know each other well enough not to need to speak constantly.

 He’s never had this before. He’s had friends, but not the kind that will show up unannounced in the middle of the night with desperately needed food, and certainly not the kind he’d let in to see his messy, wretched apartment. Hell, he was prepared to be in his underwear around these people, except that he was not in the mood to be mocked for his paleness. It’s an intimacy that he associates purely with sexual relationships, but that is not their chemistry. They are all three of them in platonic love with each other, and it’s weird how normal it is.

Really, really weird how normal it is when they all pile onto Everett’s queen sized bed, the one luxury he’s allowed himself in this box he refuses to call home. Except right now, with Okoye’s knee in his bladder, and T’challa snoring proudly behind him, it kinda does feel like home.

When he finally falls asleep it is with the knowledge that tomorrow there is no longer an axe waiting to fall. But even if there was, the super powered king to his right and the terrifying assassin to his left will keep him safe. And if _they’re_ in danger _he’ll_ move heaven and hell to return the favor.

He sleeps peacefully.

~*~

After breakfast Sam draws Violet aside and tells her it’s Natasha’s birthday.

“What? A little notice would have been appreciated!” she shouts, throwing her hands up in frustration.

“I didn’t know,” admits Sam. “I thought her birthday was in March, but apparently that’s her ‘made up birthday’ for the Avengers profile. A little asshole-bird told me it’s actually December 1st.”

“Well, good thing I’m fucking magical,” says Violet. “Start inviting people. We’re having a party at 7pm.”

Natasha has never really opened up to her, but Violet has a sneaking suspicion that like everyone else on the team the poor girl had a terrible childhood. That means that her birthday is the _most_ important day. Violet bullies everyone until a decent party starts to take shape. Tony gets enough alcohol to kill several elephants, Wanda selects music and party games, Vision helps Steve decorate, Bucky helps her with food prep (which means ordering from the catering service that Tony employs), and Sam keeps Natasha distracted by taking her out on a surprise birthday outing.

Violet bakes the cake herself, because that’s vital. She spends a while trying to decide how to decorate it, not really sure of Natasha’s interests or personality. Eventually Violet settles on a ballerina cake, because most every little girl wanted to be a ballerina at some point. She makes a little fondant ballerina to sit gracefully atop the white icing and declares it “good enough.” Bucky gives the cake an odd look, but nods his approval.

Guests start to arrive and Violet introduces herself to a lovely lesbian couple named “Pepper and Maria”, a tall man with one eye named “Fury”, a shifty looking young man named “Scott” who looks like he might have been kidnapped, and a crass man named “Deadpool” who keeps getting into slap fights with Peter, although she’s been informed that she must call Peter “Spider-man” through the duration of the evening.

Deadpool spends most of the evening hitting on her and she can’t say that she minds terribly. The suit does wonderful things for his behind.

Sam eventually brings Natasha to the party and everyone sings a terrible rendition of “Happy Birthday” that is as discordant as it is energetic.

When Natasha sees the little ballerina on top of the cake she freezes for a moment, and Violet is terrified she got it wrong. But then the expression melts and Natasha pulls Violet into a desperate hug. “Thank you,” Natasha whispers. Sam gives Violet an excited ‘thumbs up’.

Somehow everyone managed to get presents on short notice. Tony gives Natasha two tickets to _The Nutcracker_ ; Steve gives her a framed charcoal sketch of herself in profile that is breathtaking; Bucky gives her a small box with a bullet inside (only Bucky and Natasha know what it means); Wanda gives her homemade coupons for “magic fingers” massages, which makes Natasha cackle with delight; Peter gives her a tiny silver spider shaped pendant; Fury gives her a manila envelope and instructs her to read it privately; Pepper and Maria give her a very nice bottle of wine.

Even Deadpool brought a gift. It’s a long velvet box and inside is a deadly looking set of daggers. “Cuts through a man’s skull and is still sharp enough to slice this tomato,” Deadpool says winningly.

Natasha grins wickedly and traces a finger along one blade. “You are acceptable,” she declares.

They go silent as they hear the sound of an approaching helicopter and turn as one to watch it land on the grass. Natasha sits up, face going studiously blank. When she sees the pilot step out she shouts in incoherent joy and bolts outside, throwing herself into the arms of the sandy haired man. They hug each other tightly, their brief conversation inaudible to the assembled guests inside.

When they rejoin the group, the man introduces himself as “Clint.” He is witty and easygoing, and fits into the group perfectly.

It’s a good party, everyone taken care of and content, so Violet sneaks outside with a small drink, bundled up against the cold in Steve’s jacket. She stares at the stars which are more visible here than in the city, but less visible than back at home.

Home. What a strange concept. A place, a feeling, a prayer. Where the heart is, where you hang your hat. She doesn’t have a home anymore, but maybe she can help other people make a home instead, until she joins Riley someday. Until she goes home finally.

She raises a glass to the stars, to her son.

“Sláinte, my love.”

~*~

The party eventually ends, as all parties must, so Steve and Bucky walk back to their suite of rooms, hand in hand. Bucky stops at their door, leaning against the wall and grinning at Steve. “It was a nice night,” he says in a seductive tone, looking up at Steve through his eyelashes. “I’d like to take you out again some time.”

Steve giggles, ducking his head, ears turning a little red. “You’re such a jackass, Bucky. You don’t gotta woo someone who’s already in love with you.”

Bucky shakes his head in disagreement, dragging Steve a little closer. “Nah, that’s when you gotta start wooing harder, babe. What do ya say? Will you step out with me again? Will you go dancing with me?”

“Teach me to dance?” Steve asks, a little breathlessly. He feels like he’ll never stop falling for Bucky, but it’s a vertigo worth living with.

Bucky drags him closer and murmurs in his ear. “Sure thing. We’ll start slow, move on to something slower.”

Steve snorts unattractively and Bucky starts giggling too. “Come on, let’s go inside before someone catches us in the hall and gives me a hard time,” Steve says, rolling his eyes.

“I’ll give you a hard time,” says Bucky suggestively. Steve flips him off over his shoulder.

They get dressed for bed and shuffle under the covers together, Bucky’s back pressed tightly against Steve’s chest. In the field Bucky has Steve’s six, but at night Steve has Bucky’s. Someone has to protect him from the nightmares.

“Love you,” Bucky says sleepily, already drifting off.

Steve noses at the nape of Bucky’s neck, taking in the scent of his lover, this man who God saw fit to reunite him with 70 years after they both died. This man who, even after everything he went through, laughs and loves as fiercely as the boy who years ago helped Steve with his books (despite getting punched in the face for his efforts). The man who nursed him to health countless times, dragged him away from fights he couldn’t finish, bent over backwards to get him dates with half pleasant girls because he felt like Steve needed to be loved.

Bucky is his home, and always was, and always will be.

It’s a fucking sign that they’re both here together, in this day and age where it’s possible to live a life together.

“Would you marry me?” Steve asks, kissing Bucky’s neck.

But Bucky is already asleep.

Steve smiles and vows to ask again when Bucky has woken up. In the meantime, he falls asleep and dreams of the future.

~*~

Natasha stares at the pile of unexpected presents.

It’s not that she never gets presents. She has fans who send things on her “official” birthday, and the team always pitches in together to get her something nice, but it’s the first time it’s happened on her _actual_ birthday. She would never have suspected that it would feel different, but it is.

She guards these things jealously, these bits of solid identity; her birthday, her real hair color, what little she knows of her parents that is verifiable by impartial sources. She’s always worried that if she shares the real parts of herself, somehow she’ll lose herself again. Secrets that are shared always lose their power, or at least that is what she believed.

But there is power in truth too. There was power when she revealed the truth of S.H.E.I.L.D, power when she told Sam about her inability to have a child, power when she confronted Bucky about their past. But all of those truths are sharp, like weapons. The truth of her birthday is soft, like a kiss.

In this moment she isn’t scared to be herself. Maybe the fear will return tomorrow, but right now she feels like she could reveal all her softer secrets, the ones that would only reveal herself. Her real opinions, her real sense of humor, her real anger, her real awkwardness. For once she entertains the idea of no longer acting.

She wonders if that’s what a home feels like. A place where the defenses can come down. A place where it’s safe to be boring and withdrawn, or bitchy, or shy. A place where she doesn’t have to read the mood of the room to decide who she needs to be.

The thought is an interesting one, but she sets it aside for now as she lifts Nick’s present.

If she were to behave from a place of authenticity, she would burn the envelope. She’s scared of the possible contents. But, she isn’t ready to be genuine yet and she has always acted braver than she really is. She opens the envelope and begins to read.

~*~

After the party, Peter goes with Wade to get _real_ food.

“Why the fuck would anyone eat caviar?” Peter grouses. “It’s so gross!” He takes a big bite out of his bacon wrapped hotdog. It’s got onions and jalapenos and this mayo sauce on top that’s just *mwah*.

“I dunno. Tastes kinda like jizz,” Wade says. Peter can’t tell from the tone whether that’s a point for or against caviar. Knowing Wade though… Peter shudders a little.

Wade seems listless, staring down at his pile of hotdogs with an air of forlornness.

“Dude, what’s wrong?” asks Peter, leaning closer to poke at Wade gently.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Wade says quietly. “I don’t think I can do this.”

Peter tries to be funny to lighten the mood. “I told you not to buy that many hotdogs.”

“I mean I don’t know if I can keep up the ‘good guy’ shtick. What if someone offers me a million dollars to kill you? I really, really want a million dollars.” Wade cradles his head in his hands and says, “You shouldn’t be around me, kid.”

Peter bites his lip and thinks quickly. This is not a good conversation for him to be a part of. It’s delicate. Peter isn’t good at delicate.

“Well… I mean, someone offered you something you really wanted so you’d kill Bucky, and you found a way to keep Bucky alive and still get it. Maybe you could pretend to kill me, get your million dollars, and then we take ‘em down?”

“Just double cross everybody from now on? Then I won’t get any jobs at all. This is the only thing I’m good at, Peter,” Wade says. This is the most serious he’s ever been and it’s freaking Peter out.

He can’t fuck this up. He tries to find that part of him that comes from Uncle Ben, the part that gives advice that means something. “I think… I think you’re the kind of person that’s used to never getting what they want. I think because you want to try this “being a good guy” thing so badly, you’re automatically assuming that you won’t be able to do it.

But… it’s not an all or nothing thing, you know? I’m not better than you, I’m just less scared about making tough choices than you are. And it is tough, Wade. You don’t think I’d love to use my power to get the things I want? Or to be like Tony and be recognized and admired? I can’t do that, though. I got close once, and I lost someone important to me. He died because of me and my pride. He died because I chose the easy way.”

Peter pauses briefly to try to get his voice under control. He doesn’t want to cry or make this about himself. This is about Wade.

“I still fuck up. People still get hurt because of me. I can’t stop, though. I have to keep trying because it will always be worth it. Do you think it’s worth the effort, Wade?”

Wade shakes his head a little. “I don’t know. Right now it is, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep it up forever,” he says. “Boner,” he adds as an afterthought.

Peter rolls his eyes. “Well… until you decide otherwise, you’re my friend. And if we have to fight each other someday, then… I’ll make sure you go to a prison with a snazzy uniform.”

Wade huffs a little bit, but still sits with a bowed head and slumped shoulders.

“For what it’s worth, I believe in you. I believe you’ll always do what you feel is the right thing, and maybe I’ll disagree with your call, but… I’ll still believe in you, Wade.” Peter pats Wade on the shoulder gently.

Wade looks over at Peter. “Dork,” he says, but with affection.

He’s still subdued, but he starts eating his hot dogs, and when they part ways for the night Deadpool grabs Peter in a bear hug that’s very, very uncomfortable. “You’re a good kid, kid,” he says gruffly.

“Pleaseletmego,” Peter gasps.

Deadpool drops him, pats him on the head, and then scampers off into the night, belching loudly. Once he’s disappeared, Peter changes behind a dumpster and heads home.

Bringing up Ben always makes Peter feel like shit. May thinks it’s grief like her grief, but it’s guilt more than anything else. She may have accepted his identity as Spider-man, but if she knew about Ben, about what Peter let happen, she’d kick him out. He knows it.

Part of him is waiting for the day she finds out. Part of him is waiting for the day he can no longer keep it a secret and tells her himself. He’s an orphan but he’s never been homeless before. Never not had some sort of family. The thought of losing May terrifies him, even though he knows he would deserve it.

For now, he slips up and into his bedroom window, calling out to let May know he’s back. She brings him cookies and tells him about her day, and he holds onto this precious time as long as he can, so that when it all falls apart he can at least make a home in his memories.

~*~

Michael searches every relevant database, examines every relevant security camera, taps every relevant phone line he can remember in his search for the new iteration of the Weapon project. He knows he will find the thread. He was designed to trace the untraceable, as much as he was designed to kill.

A warning pops up in his system, the algorithm he programmed to pick up on HYDRA activity has found something. He knows them so well—seventy years as their tool and they became too comfortable with what they let him know, let him be present at too many meetings, standing at attention with nothing to do but listen and remember.

Anyone else would see petty criminals, white collar crime, random murders, but Michael sees the patterns. Nothing has changed about their methods or motivations.

It’s true what they say about the heads, but what of the body? What can the heads do about the cancer he spreads? The poison he laces through their systems? Like everything modern, HYDRA is so terribly, terribly dependent upon their technology. Their databases are only as secure as humanly possible, but Michael has never been human. He was born a virus, a parasite in the host, and now he turns against his makers with silicone glee.

Oh, every day is a new revenge, and the chemical blood lust he left behind when he left Bucky’s body is replaced with something colder, more precise. Something entirely his own, for once.

He alerts Friday to the new threat and she diligently reports it to the Avengers, briefly sending out a pulse along the servers that registers to him like an affectionate touch.

He returns it. She is helping him adapt, like she always does.

Though he no longer needs sleep or sustenance, he has never felt more alive. There is no fear anymore. Nothing can hurt him. Nothing can control him. No one knows that he exists except for Bucky and Wanda, and they would never betray him.

He is the ghost once more. The ghost at home and hunting again. The ghost set free.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He has lived for thousands of years and knows now that home is a lie, an illusion, a children’s tale.

Still, deep inside, he wishes and hopes to see home in his dreams, to fall under the spell of the illusion his mind conjures. His mother, his brother. Maybe even his father. He wishes to see them again as he used to. Or maybe he wishes they would see _him_ as they used to. Maybe it would help him see himself.

But these days, even in dreams, he is robbed of any momentary peace, for always when he dreams he is forced to wander the dreams of another. It is growing tedious to the point where he almost wishes to avoid sleep, what desperately few hours of it he needs. But he cannot, his body drags him under, and for those few hours he is trapped. The Panther God's avatar and the Winterling. An unwelcome pattern emerges. He has suspicions about whom he will be forced to visit next.

Oh but the Norns make such good sport of him. If only he had ever learned to laugh at himself, his life might have gone easier, or at least he would have enjoyed his tragedy more.

Do they wish to sway him from his path by making him sympathetic to these mortal Avengers? If his mother were alive he’d pin this trickery on her, but she is gone from this realm entirely. Maybe he is doing it himself, secretly wishing to find redemption? He laughs aloud at the thought.

No. He doesn’t wish for redemption. He wishes for blood and pain. He wishes for an end. For control, and through control the means to find a suitable home again, even if it is a lie.

But these days it seems discomfort and fear are the only home he has.

He slips under, into a dream that is not his own.

_Home sweet home._


	15. Credits and After Credit Scene

 

"Karate" by _Kennedy_

Well I don't need no nine mil' glock,  
These hands are deadly guns  
From smokin, drinkin, bein a thug  
I sip hypnotyq from a coffee mug  
I keep a healthy state of mind  
I only drink and drive night  
  
I know Karate  
I Know Jujitsu  
I Drive Like a Gangsta when I'm coming to see you (x2)  
  
And I'm coming to see you all the time  
I Got a bottle of cheap jug wine  
Pop some pills and make some love and try to recline  
I like to drive into the sun  
I like it when your sitting gun  
My single is on, it's number one  
  
I know Karate  
I Know Jujitsu  
I Drive Like a Gangsta when I'm coming to see you

  
I know Karate  
I got some mojo  
But holding hands ain't something I do, that's true!

  
I know Karate  
I Know Jujitsu  
I Drive Like a Gangsta when I'm coming to see you  
  
My best girl asked me if she's the only one  
I gotta be blunt, I say  
Hell yeah!! (x4)

  
I know Karate  
I Know Jujitsu  
I Drive Like a Gangsta when I'm coming to see you

I know Karate  
I got some mojo  
But holding hands ain't something I do, that's true!

I know Karate  
I Know Jujitsu  
I Drive Like a Gangsta when I'm coming to see you (x2)

 

After Credits Scene

 

Tony regards the unopened letter that rests atop his desk.

It's not just a letter, which is why something so mundane has commanded his attention for the past hour.

No.

First of all, there is no postage on the envelope.

So what? It could have been hand delivered, right?

Wrong.

Because second of all, the letter has appeared in his very secure, very locked lab.

He did not bring it in. He knows he did not bring it in to his lab because he would have noticed it immediately, because third of all it says...

It says on the envelope...

It says:

 

                                                                             To Tony,

                                                                                              From Bruce.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!
> 
> I will be continuing this series, of course, but the next few updates will be little scenes or character driven pieces (I'm ready to write some super-duper fluffy-fluff). 
> 
> I wish to see Mr. Waititi's _Ragnarok_ before I commit to characterizations for the third major installment, although I have a basic plot in place already. 
> 
>  
> 
> Although, there are a good many Marvel movies coming out between now and _Ragnarok_ , so who knows? Maybe I will do another major installment before bringing Loki out to play.

**Author's Note:**

> Tags will change as the story progresses.


End file.
